


circular motion

by sinchronicity



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon - Book, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, M/M, Minor Bill Denbrough/Audra Phillips, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Stanley Uris Lives, romantic and platonic soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2020-11-08 22:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 76,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20842952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinchronicity/pseuds/sinchronicity
Summary: In 1958 seven children clasped their bloody hands together and promised -- swore to each other and to the universe -- to hold their bond close and to come back to each other if the need arose. Theyforgot,truly and deeply they forgot, but that bond remained, across distance and time and the dark curse of Derry. Those seven children were, really, sort of like soulmates.(So it was a good thing that the magic of soul-marks was real and true, right?)[Soulmate!AU re-imagining of Stephen King's IT; Eventual Fix-It; Losers-Ensemble Cast]





	1. 1959

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Essentially this fic is an AU based off the novel, but adapted by me based on what I like/dislike about it. It's set in 1958/1985; but some themes, characterizations, and plot elements are (and may later be) drawn from the films/any other adaptation I feel like engaging with. My intention is also for it to be understandable/readable without having read the book, although I don't know how successfully I've achieved that. (But there's plenty of similarities between the various IT canons, ya get the basics!)
> 
> Content warnings: generally the same or lessor as in the source material(s), but I'll try to point out anything specific on a chapter-to-chapter basis. In this one: period-typical homophobia & a brief reference to homophobic violence.

“The LORD GOD said, “It is not good for a man to be alone; I will make a fitting helper for him.” (Genesis 2:18; JPS)

“Oh how my heart yearns for you.” (‘Peggy Sue’; J. Allison, N. Petty)

**1959**

I.

_ Robins. Gray egrets. Scarlet tanagers. Grackles. _

These were the sorts of birds that young Stanley Uris had written in his notebook. He was only a kid, so there was plenty of time for identifying more, but he was already a proud child, and he wanted to do right by his birds, like his father had taught him. 

There were lots of things that Stan knew. He knew that there were soulmates in this world; and yes, not everyone had them, but if you _ did _ have them, then they were going to be important to you, whether you liked it or not.

Stan was still a child and his sense of romance had not yet fully developed. However, he did think that he probably _ would _like it. 

Little Stanley was lucky; his impression growing up of soulmates was based largely on his parents. Donald and Andrea Uris had married quite young, and they had settled deeply into love, in a quiet sort of way. Stan’s view of soulmates was cleaning the dishes so they she wouldn’t have to; it was taking one hand off the steering wheel to touch your lady’s thigh; it was making things work no matter the obstacles. Once, when little Stanley had been very ill, his father had awakened to his mother’s tears; not because he had felt it as her soulmate -- it did not work like that -- but simply because he loved her. 

It was _ nice_. It was pleasant, and it was warm; and yes -- there was something inside Stanley’s childish heart that wanted it.

II.

The first member of the Losers Club to manifest a soul-mark, however, was Richie Tozier. He was eleven years old when his mark appeared. This was neither particularly early or particularly late for a soul-mark, and it appeared in a conveniently discreet place, curved over the bone that jutted out of his hip. He touched the mark, and the skin there was hot (like he’d always read it would be) but it didn’t hurt to press (he’d heard that too, but hadn’t really believed it). 

There was no particular reason he did not make this information immediately public. It was simply that, while Richie liked to run his mouth, he also felt that what was private was _ private_, and needn’t be shared around like the latest drug-store comic.

It was his secret; a new curious fact known only to him. In a way he was like a character in said comic-book, with a secret power or something and -- after the events of the summer of 1958 -- it was sort of nice to have something that he kept to himself _ without _ it feeling like a horrible weight pushing down on him. 

He _did _ want to know who it was. The things about soul-marks was that they were -- even in the scientific age of the 20th century -- still so _ unknown_. They could appear before you met your soulmate, or after, or you could never meet them at all, because they died or something morbid like that. So he wanted to know, but in a vague sense -- he wanted the knowledge in the same way he curiously wondered where he’d live in the future (_not Derry, Hell, not Maine -- no way José _ \--), but he had no plan about actually trying to figure it out. If he had a soulmate, he’d have to marry her, right? His mom and dad got married and then they had kids and now his dad went to work and paid boys two and a half dollars to mow the lawn and Jesus himself knew Richie was not anywhere near ready for _ that_.

So. No harm in waiting, then. 

Life had other plans for Richie Tozier, though, and -- as the river flows -- he saw who his soulmate was not three weeks after his own mark first appeared.

One of the only rules of soul-marks that was universally acknowledged was that both of the partners would manifest the mark at the same time, no matter where they were or what they were feeling or not feeling. So Richie was aware that, whoever she was, she’d probably already seen her own mark, and that was kind of weird -- did girls look at their own bodies the way Richie looked at his? 

He was thinking about this in the Barrens, trailing a few steps behind Eddie and Ben as they wandered towards the clubhouse. Richie was ignoring their conversation in favor of contemplating whether to ask Beverly if girls looked at themselves. He was pretty sure that she’d make fun of him for the question, but it _ was _ for his soulmate, so…

“Wow!” Ben’s voice cut into his internal debate. “Hey! It worked just like I thought.” 

Richie looked down to see that he was referring to the drainage creek-slash-protective moat he and Bill had been talking about building to add an extra layer of protection around their clubhouse. An obvious enough idea, but Eddie had still been on-edge from the incident with the dam. The results were in, though; there was now, essentially, a lovely ol’ moat that stretched around the perimeter of what was undeniably their territory. 

“Huh,” said Richie, “Maybe ya shoulda thought to build a bridge, too, Haystack.” Richie puffed up his chest and swept an arm out towards his friends, deepening his voice in his best frontiersman impression, “Well _ boooys_! How’re we gonna ford this here roarin’ rapids, huh? _ Huh? _” 

Eddie and Ben responded to this new Voice with well-practiced indifference. “It wouldn’t be too hard to put together a makeshift bridge from this side,” Ben said, thoughtfully, already looking around for supplies. Richie rolled his eyes. He was_ not _gonna get stuck playing construction worker on a day so full of possibilities!

“Cowards, th’ lot of ya!” He’d kind of lost the plot on what accent he was going for, but that wasn’t important. He bounded forward, hopping from foot to foot as he tugged his shoes off. 

“Less-_ go _! A real man isn’t stopped by such paltry things!” He rolled his trousers up as far as he could get them, and tied his shoelaces together to loop his shoes around his neck. Good fortune that he’d worn lace-ups today! Blessed Providence! He laughed, and started to take a step forward, only to be snagged by a small hand.

The hand belonged to Eddie. “Whaaat?” Richie complained. In just his regular voice, now. 

“You’re gonna go in there barefoot? You’re gonna cut your feet open!”

Richie rolled his eyes. “On what, the mud? I helped dig it, remember?”

“The stream could’ve carried rocks and things down with it,” Ben said reasonably but unhelpfully.

“See!”

“Man must conquer nature and likewise his own fears,” Richie said, solemnly, and then he climbed into the stream.

The water was flowing faster than he expected, but the mud was soft but sturdy against his feet. He turned towards his friends, and grinned. 

“Come on in, boys! The water’s _ grrreat! _” 

He had them at that, he knew it. Logic couldn’t stop _ fun_. Almost immediately, Ben laughed and sat down to pull off his own shoes and socks. Eddie scowled at the both of them. “Fine!” he said. “But I’m not taking off my shoes!” 

“Well, if you wanna explain to Mama Kaspbrak why her baby’s shoes are all muddy, that’s your choice…” 

“Shut up!” was all Eddie could come up with to that, and Ben and Richie both laughed at him a little. There was something fundamentally hilarious about Eddie painstakingly rolling his corduroys up over his knees while his stark white socks were about to get soaked by muddy storm-water. He climbed in gingerly, and Richie thrust a stick he’d grabbed into the air like it was a staff, shouting “Onwards Christian soldiers!” as he let them upstream. Ben laughed behind him, and then said, “Wow, the walls are holding up pretty well.”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it, you’re a genius…”

“It’s _ cold _ in here,” Eddie complained from their tail end. “Can’t we just cross!”

“Wouldn’t wanna ruin your shoes too much, right?” Richie grinned, but Eddie was right -- the water was cold and Richie was well-aware that he was not _ actually _ a hardy-tough-macho frontiersman. 

“If we must,” Richie said. “Lead the way, Eds.”

“Don’t,” Eddie said, sharply, at the nickname, and then he climbed swiftly up the band and back onto dry land. 

When it came down to it, it was only by coincidence that Richie saw it at all. He kept thinking about that,_ after, _ how he could’ve missed it, and then maybe it would’ve been a while for his next opportunity to glance at it, and the Spring of 1959 could’ve felt so different. 

But he had been watching Eddie for his reaction to ‘Eds’, so he was looking, and Eddie took a big step up, and there was --

there was a little silver mark on the back of his leg. Right above the bend of his knee. It was shaped like a bridge, with a little circle each above and below it, and it looked exactly -- absolutely fucking exactly -- like the one on Richie’s hip.

_ What? _thought Richie. _ Hey, what? Huh? _

Eddie climbed the rest of the way and there it was again -- clear as day -- impossible to miss it once you knew what you were looking for.

_ Eds? _Richie thought. 

“Are you guys coming or _ what?_” Eddie said, hands on his hips. Ben was stepping forward, but Richie was just standing there like an idiot. He bit down harshly onto his own tongue to prevent him from letting it run amok and do something real dumb like tell Eddie what he’d just realized, in front of Ben and God. 

“Yeah, I’m comin’, hold your _ horses_,” he said, and if any of the Losers noticed he was more sedate than usual for the rest of the day, they must’ve counted it as a blessing and moved on. 

The day after Eddie and Bill arrived together and when the got to the moat Ben and Richie were already hard at work constructing the bridge -- Eddie had laughed at that. 

“I thought the water was great, Richie! What happened to Man vs. Nature?”

Richie had scowled. “_Shaddup_...I’m such a good guy that I gotta show support for my weaker friends, right?” 

“Sure, sure,” Eddie said, nodding wisely but ruining it by grinning. “Let me give you a hand with that, Richie.” And then both sets of their small shoulders had borne the weight of the boards, and Richie had spent long afternoon hours thinking about everything and nothing. 

III.

The Spring winds hadn’t yet turned warm, but it was still a nice night out. The stars above Beverly Marsh and Richie Tozier were bright pinpricks in the sky. It had been cloudy for several days and it was like she was looking at a new sky now, constellations finally visible again. There was nothing in particular that was special about this tree in Memorial Park, but it sort of felt like there was -- maybe because it was an imposing tree during the daytime, and it was after dark. Not_ late _ after dark, mind, her parents still worried, and she suspected that the Toziers thought their son was still his room instead of lying in a slightly damp patch of grass. The murders were over, though, and it was like the people of Derry were...forgetting.

Even _she_ forgot things, sometimes, but then she’d see her friends’ faces and feel that tight pang of _ them_, of the Losers-as-a-unit. And she’d remember everything, even the parts she didn’t really want to. 

“I have a mark,” Richie said. His voice was just a thin whisper in the grass.

She’d been waiting for him to speak -- he was obviously working up to it -- but that wasn’t what Beverly had been expecting. She wasn’t sure what she _ had _ been expecting, though. “Yeah?” she said, tentatively. 

Richie paused, blowing smoke out of his mouth. He was trying to learn how to make rings, but he couldn’t do it yet. 

“It’s on my hip,” he said. “Which is great, right? ‘Cause then no one can see it.” He stopped again. He was obviously stalling, and she waited him out. 

“The thing is,” Richie Tozier admitted to her, while grass pricked at both their backs and the smoke from their twin cigarettes mingled above them, “I _ know _ who my soulmate it. I’ve seen the mark.” 

“Okay,” she said. She still didn’t quite understand her role in this conversation. She wondered if Richie was about to tell her his soulmate was Greta Bowie, or one of the other girls who could be so cruel to her. 

“It’s Eddie,” Richie said, in a terrible, quiet voice.

_ What? _her mind produced.

“What?” Beverly said. 

“You know,” Richie said, vaguely, like he wasn’t talking to her, just thinking aloud. “Some people say -- ‘cause you know, not everyone gets a soulmate -- and even those who_ do _, sometimes the soulmate is just friends.” 

“Right,” she said, uneasy. She’d never seen a soul-mark in real life. Soul-marks happened in books and in movies and TV shows, not in actual everyday living. Not to her _ friends_. 

“So it’s --” Richie said. “So it’s okay. If Eddie is my…you know. “

Beverly didn’t know what to say. If it wasn’t just friends, that would be a whole ‘nother thing entirely, she knew that…her father talked enough about it, and she heard other people say things, too. She wasn’t an expert but she thought she’d never have reasons to wield the words those people hefted at her friends, no matter what.

She stayed quiet, and so did Richie, for a long, uncharacteristic moment. 

“But.” he said, finally. He had finished his cigarette, and stamped out the stub on the dirt. “I don’t think Eddie is my _ friend _ soulmate. I think he’s my...soulmate. Just that.” 

But it wasn’t just that, she thought. _ Oh, Richie… _Because if that was true it would mean all sorts of things were true. Oh, Hell. She was in over her head.

“Why are you telling me this?” she said, quietly. She didn’t know how she was meant to react. 

“I don’t know,” Richie said. “It’s only that I couldn’t tell the other guys. I just couldn’t.” 

She could understand that much, at least. The tension of gender, of boys-and-girls...it was there, in the Losers, whether she liked it or not (and she didn’t much like it --) 

“I don’t know what to say, Richie,” she said.

He shrugged, his back arching in the long grass. “Yeah. Sorry.” He was so disconcertingly calm, soft-spoken. All of a sudden she longed very keenly for him to make a stupid joke and carry away the silence, take the weight of speaking off her back.

But it was clear to her that tonight it was Richie who needed her support. He was usually so unflagging; always valiantly pretending that he had his emotional responses pressed tight under his thumb; but tonight he was telling her something he’d never told another person. Her heart fluttered wildly under her breast, and she felt a deep fondness for her friend.

“I think you’re good, Richie Tozier,” she said, carefully. “I mean… you’re too loud and too rude and really annoying sometimes --” (it was a mark of how closely Richie was listening that he did not protest) -- “You are all those things but you’re my friend, too. I don’t have that many of those...so thank you.” She was peeling something of herself up, with that admission -- that she had some driving need was difficult enough to admit, but that it was emotional closeness itself that she craved -- Beverly was a child still and couldn’t think about it as an adult, but she could feel the thick, adult, _ weight _ of it, all the same. 

“Wonder if he would think that,” Richie muttered, into the night, and despite her reassurances, all Beverly could think was,_ I hope nobody else ever finds out; I hope Derry never knows you, Richie Tozier. _She knew that it was a dangerous thing indeed, to be known. And if Richie was -- well. 

She had another cigarette tucked into her blouse, and she offered it to Richie, even though she’d never seen him smoke more than once in a day’s span. 

“Thanks, Bevvie,” he said, and she struck at her matchbox for the second time that night; looked Richie in the eye as the tiny flame curled into the darkness. She still didn’t know what he needed, or if she could give it at all. 

IV.

It was different if a boy knew. Richie Tozier couldn’t articulate to himself how so, but it simply _ was_; he understood this as easily as he understood any other fact of life. 

But -- the thing was, Stan would know about soulmates. He’d already talked to Beverly but she hadn’t known much in particular because she was uneasy with the concept herself; Richie was no shrink but the fact of that was simple enough to uncover. (He was pretending he didn't know that about her at all. The admission had been hard, pretending he hadn't done it was easy.) Stan, however, was a _ romantic. _

Oh, he was quiet enough about it. But Richie saw the way his smile tucked up when he saw a romantic scene in a movie, or read one in a book. Stan was the sort of man who would grow up to have a wife and children and a little house with a fence, and Richie could poke fun of that all day but it also meant that if any of their little gang knew about soul-marks, it’d be him. 

“Stan!” Richie crowed. He didn’t feel very much like crowing, or even making jokes. He felt that if he let himself talk like normal, all sorts of secrets would come tumbling out like a stuck tap that couldn’t be turned off. “Stan the Man! Where’re you off to now, huh?” 

Stan was holding a pair of binoculars, and he sighed and raised them, like it was obvious. (Probably he did this because it was, in fact, obvious).

“Bird-watching,” he said. “You can’t come.”

“Didn’t want to anyway!” Richie said, unbothered. “I still don’t know what makes birds so int’resting. It’s not like in a film where they might do something cool. They mostly just sit around, in real life.” 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Stan said with the easy patience of someone who’d defended his interests countless times, and had eventually given up trying to convince anyone else of their worth.

“Surely I wouldn’t,” Richie said, easily enough. “Look, I won’t keep ya, Stan-the-Man, and I promise I won’t scare your birdies off. I just wanna walk with you, yeah?”

“All right,” Stan said, looking uneasy. “But I’m not answering any more questions about my dad.” 

“Not about your dad, Stanley,” Richie said. “He’s boring anyway. It’s about _ me_, a far more important topic.” 

That made Stan laugh a little, and some of the tension between them eased. Stan started off down the road, and Richie slipped into an easy pace beside him.

“So,” Richie said, after giving Stan a minute or two in which to feel safe. “You got a soul-mark, Stanley?” 

That got a big reaction -- bigger than you’d expect from Stan, unless you really _ knew _him, Richie thought smugly. Stan veered a bit to the side, and then looked back sharply. “A soul-mark?”

“Yeah. A sign of your God-ordained soulmate, a symbol of undying love… all that bull-hockey. Ya got one?” 

Stan peered at Richie. Richie let his eyes flit away from the stare, whipping off his glasses and furiously polishing them on his grimy shirt. Without them, Stan was just a mass of colors and spots, and largely non-threatening. 

“Do Jews have soul-marks, even? ‘Cause you know, the reverend at my church says --” 

Stan sighed, and Richie cut himself off, and shoved his glasses back on. _ Beep-beep, asshole. Don’t be a dickwad. Stan’s your lifeline, here. _

“Sorry,” he said. His inflection even approached sincerity. “I just -- uh.” 

Stan sighed again. Then he said, softly. “I don’t have one. Yet.” 

“But ya want one.”

“I guess so.”

“‘Cause it’s_ romantic. _” 

“My parents are soulmates,” Stan said. He sighed again. Richie felt kinda bad for making him sigh so much. He sounded like an old man. “It doesn’t mean you’ll be happy all the time or anything. But I…” he glanced sidelong at Richie. “Well, I don’t know. I want it.” 

Richie kicked aggressively at a rock on the side of the road. He watched it roll away into the underbrush. “You want it, I got it, Stan the Man.” 

Stan stopped stock-still. “You have a mark?”

Richie kept walking forward for a few feet. There were so many convenient reasons not to look Stan in the eye. “Yup,” he said, not turning around. 

“But Richie,” Stan said, jogging forward -- and boy howdy, Richie could feel the excitement just radiating right off him -- “Do you know who it is? Are you gonna tell her? Did you _ already _ tell her?” 

Richie swallowed. Here came the hard part. “Yup,” he said. “I know who it is. And nope! I haven’t said a thing.” 

“But Richie!” Stan said again, and Richie couldn’t help but grin a little at that even though his insides were still all topsy-turny. It was always fun to see ol’ Stan worked up. “You can’t -- this is your _ chance_, Richie.” 

“Chance at _ what_, though?” 

Stan frowned at him like it obvious, blindingly obvious. Richie supposed that it was…

“At love,” Stanley said, simply. ‘Cause, of course. Stan grinned, out of no-where -- it was like the sun. “Amazing that someone as obnoxious as you would have a soulmate, Richie, I’d be sure to appreciate it if I was you --” 

“Shut up!” 

Stan laughed. “Nah. I think I won’t. _ You _ never do --” 

“_Shaddup! _ ” Richie said, in an oddly accented Voice that didn’t have a name yet. “You leave me a-_lone _, ya hear?” 

Stan smiled at him, and it was even sort of fond. Richie found that if you got Stan alone he softened, and he was counting on that now.

“‘Sides,” he said, airily, like it was no big to him either way -- “I’ve got one of them _ platonic _ soulmates -- sorry, Mr. Romantic.” 

Stan’s mouth parted in a little ‘o’. “Platonic?”

“Yeah. Means ‘friends,’ smart boy.” 

“I _ know _ what it means. Just didn’t think you _ had _ any friends, I guess.”

“Hey!” Richie leapt forward, punching Stan lightly on the arm. “We’re best _ fuckin’ _ buds, pal.” 

Stan took a step closer to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder for a brief moment, before pulling it back. “I mean, I guess. Losers gotta stick together…”

_ Damn, _ Richie thought. Woulda told ya sooner if I knew I’d get this kinda reaction, Stanley -- 

“But -- friends-soulmates,” Richie offered, tentatively, “I mean -- is that _ real_?”

Stan hummed a little, to himself, and suddenly they were walking again, albeit slow and easy. “‘Course it’s real. Some of the greatest soulmates of all time have been friends...don’t they teach you that at Church? It’s in the Bible.”

“It is?” Richie was fascinated. He was aware of the differences between the Tanakh and the Christian Bible in the same way he was aware of the difference between blue jays and sparrows -- i.e., he wasn’t, but he knew that Stan was. 

“I mean -- King David _ alone _\--”

In another context, Richie would’ve said, _ Who? _But he couldn’t pretend he didn’t know who that was, that his heart hadn’t sped up at the naming of him. 

“The lad who killed Goliath, aye?” He said, his Irish accent even shakier than usual. “I ken…” 

Stan studiously ignored the accent, which was fair. “Yeah. King David and the son of Saul, Jonathan…they were brothers in arms, you know? They met before David was king. Jonathan was the prince, then, and heir to the throne -- but when he met David, their soul-marks appeared…and Jonathan gave up the throne for him.” 

Stan’s face screwed up, as if trying to remember something. “_Their souls were bound up in one another_,” he said, solemnly. “The line is something like that, in English.”

Richie’s heart went _ THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP_, in his chest. Was that how Eddie felt when he was about to have an asthma attack? It was pretty rough, if so. His head felt disconnected, like he was floating above and just watching Stan talk. Eventually, he remembered that he needed to reply. 

“Huh,” he said. It sounded less like a word and more like a rush of breath coming out. 

Stan smiled at him. “Yeah, it’s heavy stuff. And King David is the greatest king of Israel, and he wasn’t soulmates with any of his wives. Just with his friend. So that proves platonic soulmates pretty handily.” 

Richie had a sudden vivid vision of the future, where he was grown up and married to a woman who wasn’t his soulmate and what, Eddie was -- just there? _ Gack! Bad-bad! _

“Wonder how his wives felt about that?” 

Stan shrugged. “I think a lot of people in those days married people they didn’t really love. Not that not being soulmates doesn’t mean you don’t love each other! But…”

Not everyone had a soulmate. But if you _ did _ have one, they were your most important person. That’s what everyone always said, anyway.

“So what happened to Jonathan?” 

“Oh,” Stan said. “Well, he died.” 

_ Fuck! _Thought Richie, with a sudden spark of wild fear. Hadn’t Eddie nearly died last summer, the danger and the heat of thing, Bowers coming after them like a wild animal, as well as something deeper, older, something hard to contemplate? But it was too awful of a prospect to linger on. 

“Yeah?” he said, going for casual.

“Yeah,” Stan said, nodding to himself. “And when he died, David couldn’t handle it…he tore up his hair and his clothes.”

Richie shuddered. For some reason a biblical king in mourning seemed _ wrong _, but then; any adult in mourning was disconcerting to Richie (-- he was uncomfortable around the Denbroughs for several reasons, that included --) but mostly it was uncomfortable because grief was terrifying. He was eleven years old and lucky enough not to know it yet; and the possibility of it was nearly unbearable. 

“Jiminy Cricket,” Richie said, and he could only hope that his voice didn’t shake. “I mean, I hope being friends-soulmate doesn’t doom ya to that, eh?” 

Stan laughed. (_God, whatta noise! At a time like this? _) “Don’t panic, Richie. I don’t think it’s a moral necessity that a platonic soulmate die, or anything. That’s just one example. But they really did love each other...even though David outlived Jonathan, that relationship was still foundational for him, you know?” 

The way Stan talked sometimes, it was nearly impossible to believe he was a whole grade behind them; he was an intelligent, well-spoken boy. Richie felt bolstered by what he said because if he said it, it must be true...particularly about the Bible, as Richie was pretty sure Stan had more knowledge about that than most Christians at _ his _ Church, at least...and in general his soft voice seemed very sincere. Richie was suddenly intensely glad he had chosen to tell him, even if he’d confessed barely anything at all. 

(_No-one can ever know, _ he had thought to himself when he made that original discovery. But he was discovering already, with these friends, that that was not entirely true.) 

V.

The earliest facts that Mike Hanlon learned about soul-marks were these: you and your soulmate had matching marks; that they could look like anything; and that it hurt like hell when they manifested.

It was not until he was ten years old that he learned that the last one was not in actual fact _ true. _

(Mike’s father, who’s mark had manifested as the Black Spot burned, had protested,_ “Hey, I was aflame myself, who am I to know a stray ember from the mark manifesting on my knuckles, what the Hell --” _ and his mother had been laughing big with her hand over her mouth. “_You dramatic thing!” _She had said. “_You had to’ve known Mikey’d learn the truth someday_!”

Mike barely understood what they were talking about -- he wasn’t yet familiar with the story of the fire -- but he liked when his mother called him Mikey.)

His father had admitted eventually that _ no, _ in generally-accepted belief at least, a soul-mark forming was not a painful thing.

It was still a_ dangerous _ thing, though. His parents didn’t say that, but Mike thought it was true all the same. If the _ bonding _ itself didn’t hurt you, the bond surely could…even in the case of his father, whose soulmate was a man called Trev Dawson, before Mike even knew the details about the Black Spot he knew his father would’ve died for that man, if need be, and vice versa. When bonded mates were close, they knew each other’s pain, literally, and who would want to accept that burden? It was a heavy thing to bear for a child, too heavy, and knowing it could happen to him in the future scared him. Before the Losers, he had friends, but he didn’t think they were _ those _sorts of friends. 

But the Losers _ were_. That was undeniable. Not only _ would _ they die for each other, they very nearly had...it was hard for all of them to grasp, but any vestiges of childhood innocence that would’ve left them unable to grapple with the heady weight of mortality were gone by the end of 1958. The terror of dying that started with seeing the drag-marks by the water, or maybe with Henry Bowers saying he had killed Mike’s dog...it hadn’t left. Mike was beginning to see that it never, in fact, would.

Alone in his room at night, Mike shuddered. Was it worth it? But he knew that his answer to that didn’t really matter. The seven of them were a collective, parts of a whole...and there was something that tied them together, even unto suffering and death.

Besides, he thought, his father was a happy man, even with a mark on his hand that said, _ I’d do anything for another person. He hurts, I hurt. _ Mike curled up, and ran a nervous thumb over the scar where Stan had opened their palms. This mark meant much the same, didn’t it? 

“What happens if you never get a soul-mark?” Bill said, one evening, as they were all sitting around a campfire in the Barrens. “I mean, are you just -- alone?” 

“No,” Mike said, because his parents weren’t soulmates but they were some of the two most in-love people he knew. “There’s always friends and partners and…” he searched his mind for other words he’d read in books, “teammates, and comrades.” 

“I don’t know,” Beverly said doubtfully, critically examining in her mind the difference between love and acknowledgement. “What if it means we never get a lover?”

“Oh, someone will love _ you_,” Ben said immediately and genuinely, temporarily unaware of the sensual weight behind his words.

Sitting at a distance from the group -- and up ‘till that point uncharacteristically quiet -- Richie made a skeptical noise. “As _ if, _” he said. “Losers is losers, huh? We gotta stick together, ‘cause who else will have us?” Without meaning to and without thinking about it, his hand drifted to the gentle silver mark on his hip. It was just another thing he would have to ignore. 

Stan shook his head at Richie, although he was smiling gently -- he was amused, not annoyed. “One day even _ you _ will grow up, Richie,” he said, not unkindly. “We all will. And it’ll be different.”

_ It’s already different_, Mike thought. Across from him, he watched Beverly chew her lip, and he thought she might feel the same. 

“Even without soulmates,” Eddie said -- surprising Mike a little; Eddie usually sat these talks out in favor of staring moodily into the distance. “We can still be _ friends_.”

“Yeah,” Ben said, smiling (at Beverly, not Eddie, Mike noted with amusement). “After all this we’ve _ got _ to be.”

Bill nodded, sort of solemnly, and they all relaxed in some minute way -- Big Bill agreed, and now, it _ must _be true. 

Richie sprang to his feet with that sudden energy he seemed to explode with. (Mike liked Richie because he liked all the Losers, but he would admit to being awful confused by him, sometimes). “Yeah, right! I’ll be too busy being a _ faaamous _ rock’n’roller to deal with you lot!” He launched into a rendition of ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ that was so bad that Stan winced and covered his ears, but Mike couldn’t help but laugh, and he saw that Beverly was giggling into Ben’s shoulder as he sat, stock-still and blushing, beside her. 

“Who’d wanna be friends with _ you?" _Eddie said in disgust as Richie rocked his hips like Elvis did. “Be _ serious_,” Stan said, annoyed, at the same time.

Perhaps stymied by their boos, Richie slowed to a stop and rounded on Eddie, grinning. “But I’ll still hang out with _ you_, Eds...because you’re so _ cute! _” He pinched at Eddie’s cheek quick enough that Eddie barely had time to roll away, shrieking. 

“I don’t know if Richie’ll _ ever _ grow up,” Mike heard Beverly murmur to Ben, who laughed. Mike looked up and saw that Bill was smiling, all soft and fond, at all of them. For an instant over the sparking fire their eyes met, and Mike and Bill grinned at each other. Without noticing that they were doing it, both of them rubbed, simultaneously, at the still-healing scars on their palms.

VI.

It wasn’t so much that Eddie had anything in particular against his friends talking about soulmates -- it was kind of just one of those things that everyone talked about; sometimes casually, sometimes seriously, and on any and all occasions -- and he suspected that it would probably always be that way. It was just that he had nothing to contribute. He thought about soulmates sometimes, but it didn’t seem to be in the same way his classmates and friends did. For instance, he didn’t_ want _ a soul-mark, and he barely ever heard anyone say that. (He thought Beverly might’ve once, but she’d been talking to Bill, so he wasn’t sure.) 

Eddie didn’t want a soul-mark because, quite simply, he was _ scared _ of them. To his young mind, they were dangerous things, like a hot stove...something for adults to deal with. His mother could handle having a soulmate who was _ dead _ because she was an adult, but Eddie wouldn’t able to do something like that...he was not so strong as his mother. And he did know that it hurt her terribly. Soulmates could turn out all right, like Richie Tozier’s parents, but you might also never meet them (there were rumors of a teacher at Derry Elementary having manifested a mark _ already _ faded, and Eddie thought that probably wasn’t possible, but what if it _ was _ ?), or you could meet them and be happy and then lose that. You could meet them and then they could get sick and die horribly and you’d _ feel _ it, all the way down. And what if, like some other parents he knew, you _ weren’t _ soulmates, but one of you _ had _ a mark, and then you _ met _ your soulmate -- what then? 

There were simply too many variables, and no easy way to protect yourself. That was a sharp-edged thing if Eddie ever saw one, right there. 

So the day that he discovered the soul-mark on the back of his leg (which had in fact manifested several days prior, without him noticing) he felt no excitement and a lot of dread. The idea of telling his mother was considered, but swiftly dismissed...he didn’t even _ know _ what she’d do, but it couldn’t be good. And so it, quickly and quietly, became Eddie’s secret. He probably wouldn’t’ve told his friends anyways (Stan and Ben and maybe some of the others, Mike perhaps? would be excited, and he didn’t want _ that _ any more than he wanted his mother’s panic --), but he felt that somehow his friend’s knowing was already too close to his mother knowing. 

There was no room amongst the steady panic that the mark invoked in him for any of the usual excitements of childhood soul-bonding -- Eddie did not wonder who it was, he did not fantasize about marrying her; in fact the kindest thought he had to girl who must share his mark was_ I hope she doesn’t get hurt_, and that was because he didn’t want to feel it too. 

(He did feel things, from time to time, but they were subtle -- like his soulmate just scraped her knuckles, or something. In those moments he’d wring his hands together, or hop from foot to foot, or sit and read a comic -- anything to distract himself from it, pretend he wasn’t noticing her suffering.) 

And so it would be years before his mother would see the mark that sat proud and silver on the back of her son’s knee. By that time, without him even knowing it, he was already beginning to forget the boy who shared that mark.

VII.

If Richie spent a Spring of confessing and almost-confessing, Ben Hanscom did not. There was nothing to confess. He did not have a soul-mark. He was...well. He found it difficult to consider himself _in love_ with Beverly, although of course, he was -- as much as any child could be in love with another child.

It was just a crush; he’d never tell her. It was just looking at her and noticing her and, _Did you know that she’s very good at yo-yo, and juggling, and also she can sew, have you seen that sweatshirt she wears a lot? She sewed the flower patch on herself; she told me that when it was just me and her and Eddie and we were reading comics, and I was too scared to sit by her so I was sitting by Eddie but she looked right at me, anyway. _

It was different from soul-marks, and in a way it was less scary, perhaps because it was something that he chose. He had not chosen to love her -- he had no control over _that_ \-- but he got to choose to keep looking, to keep paying attention.

“Do you have any little girlfriends at school, Benny?” His mother asked once, over dinner. Ben was so appalled by this question that he dropped his spoon with a loud, impolite clatter. 

“_Mamma!_”

She laughed. “Oh, don’t be so scandalized, I was only wondering --”

“I certainly don’t,” Ben said, with an aggressive blush all over his face. 

His mother got a real soft, gentle look on her face. “Well,” she said, “maybe one day. You’re a good boy.”

She ruffled his hair, and eventually his blush faded, and he told her about some book he was reading, instead.

But that night when he went up to his room, he thought about Beverly again. The previous weekend, he had watched her climb a tree, and he was still impressed by this. She was really strong, maybe not as strong as Bill, but close. When Ben thought about her, he smiled. Maybe it would’ve been nice to tell someone, but it was nice to just hold those feelings in your chest, too. 

VIII.

It could be a heavy thing; a chest full of childish love. 1959 was full of restless nights for Richie Tozier; before and after the manifestation of his mark. The killings that had torn through 1858 were over, but somehow it still wasn’t quite enough. (Years later, Richie would think, _ was that a premonition? _) Now, the real terror began -- the terrors of growing up, the weight of living.

Having a soul-mark wasn’t supposed to feel like you had a ball of lead tied ‘round your ankle, dragging you down to some forgotten depths. Of that, he was fairly sure...but he couldn’t help the anxiety that filled him when his mark did appear.

_ Richie had a bad dream one night, and it was only a bad dream ‘cause they’d killed It, but -- it felt so fucking real and he woke up terrified all the same -- _

JUST FRIENDS, RICHIE?_ The clown said, in the dream. It wasn’t laughing, but there was that inflection in its voice -- like it wanted to be, like it was laughing in its heart, if it had one. _ IS THAT _SOOO_? 

WHY DON’T YOU TELL EDDIE THAT, THEN? FRAGILE LITTLE EDDIE? DON’T YOU THINK HE’LL_ BELIEVE _YOU? 

_ And that was the question, wasn’t it? Why _ didn’t _ he tell Eddie? He’d told Bev. He hadn’t told Stan but he thought it might be a possibility. Friends was friends. Losers stick together. It wasn’t that big a deal, really, except for how it _ was.

He didn’t tell Eddie because, simply, he knew not to. The reasons why were more _ felt _ than _ known _ by the Richie Tozier that existed in 1959, but by 1985 he would have a more articulate grasp on it. Derry could be a cruel town, perhaps because of Pennywise or maybe it would’ve been that way despite of him -- but regardless it was impossible to imagine the place without the alien being literally carving out the earth of it; the crater of It landing forever a fixture of the underground of Derry, Maine. 

_ Derry, Maine_, where Adrian Mellon would be murdered after walking out of a bar with his soulmate; where you couldn’t even buy some ice cream or go to the movies without someone shoving you around, shattering your glasses or even your arm. Where six children grew to be adults who forgot and one child grew to be an adult who remembered. 

_ Eds? _ Was what Richie thought in one of the last thoughts of Eddie Kaspbrak he’d have for quite some time, _ Are you waiting for me like I’m waiting for you? _In the truth of it, Eddie was not, but such was the way of things; even the existence of soulmates did not cause happenstance to cease her weary work. Richie would wait, and Eddie would wait for something completely different, and -- for a time -- that was that.

_ “Hey-uh, Eddie, catch --” And Richie tossed Eddie’s aspirator to him, gently, intending as stated for him to catch it. _

_ Eddie did, face flushed bright-red. “Not funny, Trashmouth,” he said in one long exhale of breath, even though it was him who dropped the damn thing in the first place, and Richie was just passing it back. _

_ “Ain’t meant to be funny, Eddie-my-love,” Richie said, easily. He thought maybe it was odd that he could continue to tease Eddie like this, knowing what he knew about himself, but -- honestly -- when he was with Eddie it just came back automatically, simple as anything. _

_ “Good, ‘cause I ain’t laughing,” Eddie said, moodily, but his elbow prodded at Richie’s side, friendly and familiar. _

I ain’t laughin’ either,_ Richie thought. _Hell! If this is a mistake, or damnation, then -- whatta way to go! 


	2. The In-Between (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets of the Loser's 27 years.

  
I.

Ben Hanscom wasn’t a particularly nostalgic man; although perhaps that was simply because the past wasn’t something he really recalled. But still -- some memories stick in the mind and coalesce; the dramatic ones, the really lovely ones, the chaotic ones -- but sometimes something mundane sticks and stays there, unyielding, throughout the years.

He had been shaving at the bathroom sink. He was young enough then that this was still sort of exciting and new. His fingers followed the curve of the razor-blade, feeling for loose hairs, feeling the vulnerable stretch of his neck, feeling the pulse-point of his neck -- and suddenly yes it _ was _ sensual, and he wanted very deeply that it was someone else’s fingers there.

But _ whose_? At fifteen Ben was already a romantic. Not that he didn’t think about other things but he wanted...he thought that he wanted…_well_…

The truth was that he didn’t know what he wanted, and he couldn’t know, because he’d forgotten her and she’d forgotten him. But in the back of his mind in that one wondrous moment he had a glimpse of red hair, and a delicate ankle bracelet, and a tattered sweatshirt, and scabby knees on gangly legs...and a smile that had lit up his world in ultraviolet light.

_ What? _ he thought, because he hadn’t even had a real crush yet, right, so who…? 

The forgetting of it wasn’t perfect, wasn’t complete. (In 1985, that would be reassuring, comforting, like maybe It wasn’t all powerful; in the meantime it was just frustrating and confusing and he didn’t know what he was feeling, didn’t recognize the fingers he was half-fantasizing about…but he remembered the feeling of that moment in the bathroom, the rabbit-quick race of his pulse and feel of his his own flesh and the lightning flash of longing for a girl he didn’t know.) 

  
  
II.

Right around the time that he graduated college, Bill Denbrough had a brief flare of interest in the concept of soulmates. It was not a subject he’d been particularly passionate about in the past; his parents were soulmates but that had not encouraged within him a great trust in the phenomenon. In his exploration, he did the only thing he really knew how to do, and wrote about it. 

He wrote something strange and uncharacteristic, a story about soulmates who never met but who always longed for each other. He never finished the story because he didn’t know how it should end, and because his agent, Susan, laughed when she read it. 

“Not really your wheelhouse, is it?” she said, wryly, handing the sheath of papers back to him. She was lounging on the bed in just her bra and shorts, and her loose hair hung prettily over her forehead. 

“I guess not,” Bill said, and then he kissed her. She cupped his chin in one small hand and he liked the way her fingertips brushed through the pin-pricks of his stubble. He let her push at him and the two of them laid back against the bed. Susan had a soulmate, and in fact she knew who it was -- but she and her intended had decided to leave each other alone for now, and let life take them where it would.

“_If soulmates are so destined, why aren’t I making love with _ him _ right now?” She’d teased on one memorable occasion; naked and restless in his bed, her hand exploring between his legs. _

_ Bill had gasped, and then moaned, and then -- “Well, if you’re soulmates you’re meant to compatible and what could be more compatible than agreeing to _ that _ ?” _

_ Her hand had lifted to grip at his shoulder and she leaned over him, her face against his chest, to laugh and laugh… “Maybe,” she said…"Maybe you’re right! You just _ might _ be, Bill Denbrough!” _

He didn’t know, really, whether he was right; his own body remained unblemished by a soul-mark, and for some reason he expected it to remain that way. He didn’t mind so much. There were plenty of other things in life.

  
  


III.

Beverly had just slept with a man named Andrew and now she was smoking on the balcony of his apartment, which overlooked the city and was surrounded by bright lights which flickered and winked at her. She hadn’t been thinking about soulmates at all until she had seen the silver flash of a mark on Andrew’s ankle and then she couldn’t _ stop _ thinking about them, about her own skin which was clear of such marks…

She had been terrified of getting a soul-mark as a child. She didn’t like to think of that but she knew that it was true. When she thought of it now, it was in a vague, almost detached way...but as a young girl she knew the truth: she had feared getting a soul-mark because what if her father had the same one and she was trapped, had to be his most important person forever? 

She couldn’t have said exactly why that was bad but she knew that it was not good. She shuddered at the memory of it, although she had no idea why it had even occurred to her. (_I worry about you, Bevvie, _ his voice said in her mind. _ I worry A LOT! _) 

Soul-marks like that didn’t even happen; specifically they didn’t occur between family members but what if -- what _ if _ \-- 

But now she was here on this balcony and she hadn’t spoken to Al Marsh in years but she was letting Andrew touch her, and what did that mean? Nothing, it meant nothing, of course…

Nothing except for the fact that there was some longing within her, maybe not for a soulmate but for a lover who _ saw _ her and loved and wanted her anyway...TV programmes and radio specials were always trying to make out that soulmates meant those things but truly she’d take it any way she could...and soulmates were still terrifying in their own way.

(A sudden remembrance struck her like a lightning bolt made of childhood fear. But was it her own fear or someone else’s? She thought she recalled sharing a cigarette with someone, and then -- but no, it was gone as quickly as it had come.)

The nicotine in her mouth overlapped with the remembered taste of it from all those years ago and the combination went sour on her tongue. She stubbed out her cigarette and pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders, although it wasn’t yet very cold. She stared over the city for a moment, and then she turned around and went back inside to Andrew’s apartment, to Andrew’s bed. 

  
  
IV.

Sonia Kaspbrak did not much approve of her son dating girls, but that didn’t mean it never happened. One of the times Eddie left her, in which he went to college, he dated a woman named Melissa for almost five months, which was for him a very long time. 

They had one class together and she had approached him, not the other way around. She had called him cute, which for some reason had annoyed him. (He thought perhaps this was because his mother still called him little and sweet and other things he didn’t feel). But he liked her, all the same. She had long black hair that got a little wavy when she didn’t blow-dry it, and a wide pretty face. On their fifth date together they had pleasant, unassuming sex. 

It was good and that was that. He wanted very much to make her happy, to let her enjoy herself...and he did. Eddie was not a particularly romantic man, really, and in fact in his relationships with women there was some odd distance that even he was aware of -- a sense of practicality without sentiment.

He liked Melissa and she liked him, but neither of them would’ve said they were in love with each other. (If asked, Melissa would’ve said that Eddie was very sweet and kind and she loved him even if she wasn’t _ in _love. And Eddie would’ve said that Melissa was very pretty and smart and good and he loved her, too). 

Melissa had a silver mark on her inner thigh that few people got to see. In fact, every woman that Eddie Kaspbrak ever went on a date with, not counting the notable exception of his wife, had a soul-mark, although none of them had yet met their intendeds. It was sort of nice, in a way...they were the kind of girls who wanted a soulmate one day, they just also didn’t mind some exploration along the way. And Eddie had grown into a handsome young man, with gentle hands and kind eyes. He knew he was a filler before they met their prince -- but that was fine. (It was possible he should’ve been dismayed by that. It was just that he didn’t really want to be anyone’s prince at all.) He continued to ignore his own mark, though when people noticed it he didn’t get offended. He just hadn’t met that person yet. No need to mention that he keenly hoped he never would.   
  


Myra did not have a soulmate. He knew that that fact worried her, not on her the merits of her own life, but because Eddie had his mark -- what if some other woman came and stole him away from her? The first time she’d expressed this to Eddie, he’d laughed.

“I don’t believe in soulmates, Marty,” he told her, quite genuinely. “I mean, not that I don’t think that they exist. I admit that they do. It’s just I don’t think they have to mean anything if you don’t want them to. I’m not waiting for anything.” 

And truly, he wasn’t. Myra had looked at him with glistening eyes, and he leaned forward and kissed her. “Promise?” Myra asked. She giggled a little.

Eddie smiled at her. He was used to playing at childishness. It was easy. “I promise,” he told her. 

  
  
V.

“You have a _ soul-mark? _” Annette said, her voice dipping and rising through the sentence; she was a little tipsy; they all were. “Lemme see it!” 

And there it was -- a party trick to be used in flirting-emergencies. “Of course ya can, darlin’ -- if yer ready for that --” she laughed prettily, her hand cupped over her mouth, and Richie pulled his shirt up, dipping his thumb into a belt loop to shimmy his pants low enough on his waist so that she could see. 

“Oh!” she said, wide eyes on the little silver mark. She reached out a hand to press against it. “How..._intimate _ of a spot.” He looked down at her pink-painted nails on his pale flesh. 

“You really don’t know who it is?” Mary asked, from beside her.

“Nope,” he said. “Not a clue. She must be far away, though. I never feel any random pains or anything.” 

“It’s not just pain, you know,” Annette said, her fingertips still pressing into his hip. “I mean I’ve heard about…it’s strong physical sensations, right? So...imagine it...you’re making love and you _ feel _ her…”

Richie had heard that too, and he’d thought about it like Annette apparently had. He couldn’t help the shiver that ran up his spine as some intense spike of want hit him.

“That’s fucking creepy,” Mary said beside them, apparently not sensing the mood, “Dude. My orgasm is _ my _orgasm. He doesn’t get to have that too!” 

“Well, that’s feminism for you,” Richie deadpanned, and Annette laughed as she finally pulled her hand back, leaving Richie’s hips feeling cold without her touch. 

“I think it’d be nice,” Annette said, her voice dipping into vagueness as her mind visibly slipped sideways into an imaginary scenario. “Double the fun!” Mary snorted, and then leaned over to whisper something into Annette’s ear that made her laugh again, this time a pure simple laugh where she didn’t bother to cover her mouth. She blushed at it, too, or maybe that was just redness from drinking or dancing. It was lovely, whatever it was, wild spots of life on her plump lively cheeks. 

  


He went home with her, with Annette, and by that point he was living alone off his burgeoning new salary and so they watched bad TV and ate the leftover pizza in his fridge and then they had sex in his bed and Annette laughed through all of it; a bright vibrant woman, carefree in everything. She told him where to touch her and then grinned at him devilishly, because she knew where to touch him, too -- he didn’t know how she knew so easily, but she did.

“Imagine it,” she whispered to him, her face red and sweaty with exertion, leaning over him as her whole body rocked in rhythm, “I feel what you feel, you feel what I feel -- Oh God!” she said as he moved with her. “Isn’t it _ romantic_?”

And it _ was_. It was romantic playing at it with her and he barely knew her. He woke up in the morning and he wanted it still. The idea of shared pain had never threatened to scare him away, but even if it _ had _ \-- the idea of shared pleasure would be one helluva counter-argument. Score one for the universe and her love-destinies! 

  
  
VI.

_ I have been interested in Derry for a long time -- as long as I have been interested in my father’s stories, I suppose, which is about as long as I can remember -- and so it seems appropriate that I start compiling my notes in one place, for easy access. Even if I might damn well be the only one who _ wants _to access it. _

_ The truth is that today I am not even thinking about Derry at all. Or, well…I am, I very much am...but I’m thinking about soulmates as well. _

_ And I’m thinking about six other people, six kids who grew up and went away. And they forgot, but I didn’t. _

_ So what does that mean? _

_ The thing is we were almost like soulmates. _

_ I know it’s juvenile and slightly absurd but after all the shit we went through I think I can be forgiven that much, at least. It’s just I can’t stop thinking about my father and how his mark manifested over his knuckles while the Black Spot burned and his friend Trev saved his life by keeping hold of his hand. _

_ We saved each other; all of us...and in the darkness under Derry we held on to each other. So why don’t we get something to show for it as well? _

The silver scars from Stan’s coke bottle had faded off Mike’s hand even if the memories hadn’t. He was, genuinely, still too afraid of soulmates to really _ want _ one...his experience with the Losers had sort of ended up making that worse instead of better. 

So when Carole Danner asked him if he had a mark, why did he nearly not know what to say?

“No,” he said, eventually, when the gears in his mind had turned over and reminded him of the truth. “I don’t. Do you?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice a little intense, like maybe she’d had bad reactions to that before. “I do. But I’m not waiting for him.” 

Mike smiled at her. He liked that -- felt comforted that there was someone important to her out there, maybe, since he had six important someones who were far away -- “That seems fair enough,” he said. “Can’t spend your whole life waiting for the next bit to happen, right?” 

Something in her posture relaxed ever so slightly as he said that. “Exactly,” she said. “Now, would you mind explaining that to my mother?”

She smiled wide, her crooked white teeth bits of light in the dark. Mike smiled back. He liked her; he liked her quite a bit. She liked him back, and they danced around each other in a rather marvelous display, like animals in mating season or maybe just like 20th century human beings. He wasn’t sure where they’d end up but he was excited as all-Hell to see it, just the same. 

Perhaps he had a soulmate or perhaps he didn’t...but it was like he'd told her. There was no real use in waiting around for it to happen. He had one thing looming over his head already, and that was plenty.  


VII.

Meeting Patty was the greatest blessing of Stan’s life. That’s how it felt, anyway. 

It wasn’t that she was perfect (although sometimes in quiet moments he sort of felt that she was) -- or that she was exactly what he needed (although God _ again _ she was she _ was_) but it was that Patricia Blum came into the life of Stanley Uris exactly when he needed that to occur; when he was this foolish young thing, about to thrust head-first into adult life, and when he needed hope and structure and a way forward she gave it to him. She offered it up easy, with a smile on her pretty face. Stan sank into it; Patty felt like home, like something half-remembered…like comfort.

_ Thank you God! _ he thought to a creator he didn’t even always know that he believed in. But Patty did believe -- he had always loved that you could sense that about her, feel the belief that went down straight to her heart -- and he was feeling connected and a part of a whole and like maybe he _could _ count as a member of the minyan and it was alright, it was Godly; a sending-up to the universe; alive and powerful and real and -- 

_ Are you there, God? It’s me, Stanley Uris. _ And he laughed at the absurdity of it. How bold of him to ever think he’d receive an answer? Patty wouldn’t have thought that she would and that’s why he burrowed his face into the curve of her neck; alright well maybe it wasn’t _ why, _ but it was important. Patty was humble, but she felt things deeply and keenly, and when it was just the two of them she'd tell him almost anything. She was sweet to him and sweet _on_ him, and for all the years that they were married, could still make the other blush.

They were also soulmates, which was lovely. He had wanted that and wouldn’t have denied that fact, but he had also resolutely refused to be the sort of man who got desperate about it. When his soul-mark appeared on the underside of his right wrist, he did not put any ads in the paper or follow any superstitions meant to bring true love his way (Well, maybe a _ few_, but he hadn’t expected them to actually _ work_.) Stanley Uris had simply switched his watch to the other wrist and started wearing his sleeve-cuffs rolled up. He was still quite young, only twenty-one years old, but he was ready. He waited. 

He simply had a feeling that everything would work out. When he touched his mark, it felt warm under his fingers, and that would always make him smile. Not long after, he'd met Patty; because he’d been right -- everything _ would _ work out. For a time, at least.


	3. The In-Between (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The years of The Forgetting, part two.
> 
> Next stop, 1985.

I.

Stanley Uris woke up early, before his wife. Morning sunlight filtered in — barely — through their blinds and in the delicate light of it he watched Patty for a moment as she slept, her face bunched up and pressed tight into her pillow. He was still lying in bed thinking about her when she awoke.

“Good morning,” she said. “It’s Sunday. It’s nice to have a day together, isn’t it?” They’d both been awfully busy recently, but Sundays were slow and she was right. It _ was _ nice. Instead of getting up they stayed in bed and made love, gentle and easy. Patty laughed into her pillow as Stan whispered into her ear a bad joke; neither of them were distracted by the thoughts that sometimes came, of wanting children and being angry with their bodies for not providing. Flesh was plenty good for other things as well. 

Eventually they got up and they showered, together, like they had when they were silly young things. Patty laughed like a sorority girl. Stanley smiled at her. He liked when his wife laughed. When he was happy it made his whole face light up, and he looked young, very young like that, although he was of course nearing forty. 

“Let’s go out,” she said, as they were getting dressed. Stan was pulling on his socks as she curled mascara (clear instead of black, she liked a subtle look) into her lashes. “Let’s just do something together, I don’t know, anything.” 

“Alright,” Stan said, and he smiled. An hour later, after they’d had breakfast, he drove her to a music shop. He watched her as she flipped through jazz records and thought, rather smugly, _ That’s my wife. Mine! _For surely she was quite gorgeous and quite kind and all the other things that you’d want your wife to be. The album she chose was not particularly expensive, but he still delighted in being able to buy it for her. As they crossed the street back to the car, they held hands.

_ I love you, Patty! _Stanley Uris thought. He then spent a brief but intense moment wishing there was a child, to hold his other hand. To be ushered between them and listen to all their favorite albums — that would complete the picture. But there wasn’t, and in his heart he had that same odd surety that there never would be...

When they got home, she put on her record, and it was to the sound of it that Stanley rinsed off some strawberries and added them to a little bowl with their green leaves cut off, and doused them in sugar and whipped cream. Patty laughed when he handed her the bowl with a little fork.

“What is this about?” she said, and Stan shrugged.

“Can’t I spoil my own wife every now and then?” He said, and he grinned. It was the early '80s, and they had several unblemished years still in front of them.

II.

Beverly was sitting outside of her best friend’s apartment. She had just finished a cigarette, and was nursing the drink Kay had mixed for her in lieu of lighting another. It was dark out, the night a comforting blanket on her, obscuring all her flaws and all her fears.

“You know,” Kay said, into the night air. “I’ve been thinking about soulmates, and everyone is aware that I'm not a fan, but — I dunno. I was thinking, like — I’d be alright if _ you _ were my soulmate.”

“Wow,” Beverly said, her smile quirking, one eyebrow raised. “Are you coming on to me?” She liked being with Kay. Things were easy between them. In all honesty, Kay was one of the few friendships that Beverly had that was surviving her relationship with Tom. (She didn’t much like to think about that, though.)

“No! God! Mind in the gutter, girl, where does _ that _ get you — I was thinking about platonic soulmates, actually.” 

“Ah, the classic ‘we’re just friends’...!” Beverly tapped a finger against the side of her glass, shooting Kay another smile.

Kay laughed. When she was with Beverly and just with Beverly, her laugh was loud and rough and exuberant, and Beverly thought it was really quite lovely. 

“If you think it’s all just a ploy, there’s a lot more homosexuals than we thought, eh?”

“Well, maybe there are!” 

Kay laughed again. “Alright, alright, I get it, you’re very enlightened. But seriously — that whole platonic deal, it wouldn’t be so bad. I mean, I almost wish I’d get a damn soul-mark of any sort already so I could just stop worrying about it, you feel me?”

Beverly laughed. “Yeah, I feel you...I mean, me too, I guess. If it was purely a choice I’d opt out, but...I never really think of platonic soulmates.”

“Seems like mostly no one ever does, honestly.”

“All sorts of reasons for that.” 

Kay cocked an eyebrow, as if on queue. “Well, yeah, Bev.” 

“I’m just saying that because I knew someone — hmm. Well, I don’t know. I don’t even know why I got so defensive there.” 

“Some secret confession to make to me?” Kay said it like a joke, her eyes wide, but there was a...gentleness, a softness, that told Beverly — _ If there’s anything you need to tell me, anything at all, you can. _

Beverly laughed, and it felt so care-free, so easy, so simple. It wasn’t, of course, nothing was...but by God it felt good to pretend. She squeezed her hand tight on Kay’s shoulder, leaned in close to get a whiff of the scent of the cologne she wore. 

“I know what you mean, though,” she said, smiling but earnest. “I wouldn’t mind being platonic soulmates with you, either.” 

“Yeah?” Kay said, and then she leaned in and kissed Beverly firmly on the lips. In all honesty, Beverly thought, it felt like any other kiss. But there was something thrilling about it, too, and when they broke apart she stayed still for a moment, feeling her lip with a gentle finger. 

“Yeah,” Beverly said, unsure even of what she was answering — but she did love Kay. More than most relationships in her life, really, she loved Kay. She was so lucky to have her. Two unmatched beings, who found each other and hung on for dear life. 

“Well, _ good, _” Kay said, firmly, and then something settled between them into the cool night air. In a moment, Kay would insult Tom, and then in another moment Beverly was defend him (although why she’d do that she couldn’t say — ) and everything would be back to its careful balance of normalcy. She touched her lip one more time. She wanted to remember that kiss.

III.

When he was in college, Richie Tozier had dated a woman named Alanna Goodman for six months. They weren’t the best six months of his life by any means, but they were pretty good. Not bad, at least. It was years later, and he was sitting beside Alanna once again, listening as she told him something very personal about herself. After she finished, they sat in silence for a while. He still smoked, then, and she did too. At one point they exhaled a stream of smoke at the same time, and Richie watched it dissipate into the already-stale air of his apartment.

“I ever hear any of this in one of your shit jokes and you’re _ dead meat_, Tozier.” Alanna said. There was a hard edge to it that meant she wasn’t really joking.

“Aw, c’mon,” Richie said. “I wouldn’t.”

Alanna frowned at him, one eyebrow raising dangerously. “Are you sure?” 

“Of course I’m sure,” Richie said, although probably he’d been guilty of worse things. 

“Okay,” she said, nodding a little. “But I’m keeping an ear out, yeah? The first indication of an ‘I fucked a lesbian’ story, and —”

“And it won’t be pretty?”

She leaned close to punch him lightly on the shoulder. “It really won’t.” 

“Is my reputation really _ that _ bad?”

“It kinda is, dude. The Trashmouth Who Tells All...that’s your whole radio gag. Half of ‘em in those dumb little impressions you do, but like...that’s still a lot of chatter.” 

Richie frowned. “Hm. I guess you’re not wrong. There _ is _too much chatter…It’s just a persona, though, I mean, I can change it. I’ve been thinking, I’ve got to get back to my radical roots, anyway — you know, I used to get called a 'pinko commie' all the time, but the other day, this older gentleman calls into my radio show, and you know what he calls me?”

“What does he call you, Rich?” There was a little smile lifting one side of her mouth; a soft private expression that he remembered from their time together.

“A ‘bleeding-heart liberal.’ I mean, how’s that for a _ downgrade_, am I right?”

Alanna laughed. “Okay, so talk more about Marx and less about sex. And read a damn feminist theoretical text. That’ll fix ya right up.” 

“But sex and politics go hand in hand! I think it was Foucault who said that.”

“I don’t think it was, though,” Alanna said, but shot him a small fond glance. He watched her as she bent her head to stub out the end of her cig on his makeshift ashtray.

“You’ll ruin all your plates if you keep using them like this,” she said quietly. 

“I know,” Richie said. There was silence between them for a while. Eventually, Richie decided to try his hand at sincerity. No Voices required. 

“Hey,” he said. “Thanks for telling me this, Al. Ya didn’t have to.”

Alanna leaned over on the couch so their shoulders were pressed together. “I didn’t. But I wanted to. You would’ve heard about it eventually, but I thought...since we dated, maybe you deserved to know early.” 

“Glad to be of service in turning you gay.”

She laughed, big, for the second time that evening. “Babe, if anyone turned me gay, it wasn’t _ you_.” 

“Does that mean I was good in bed?” He said, hopefully.

“It means girls are _ better_.” 

Richie in turn laughed at that, and he was still grinning, open-mouthed, when Alanna put her hand on his chin and pulled him in to kiss him. 

“Thanks for being decent about it, Rich,” she said when she pulled back. 

“De nada,” Richie said, and he never forgot that evening they had together, in his cheap smoked-out apartment, and the secrets revealed therein.

IV.

_ “A recent study of dementia patients and their long-term partners sheds new insights — and new doubts — on popular conceptions of the phenomenon of soulmate pain-share…in that, while the patient and their loved one may be physically close, even touching, the pain is felt or not felt as if they were quite far from each other. It seems ‘distance’ from one’s soulmate can include them simply not recognizing you. The small sample size of the study means no concrete conclusions can be drawn from this, of course, but it does prove very intriguing…” _

The dull drone of the report was replaced by a snappy reporter saying, in that characteristically careless tone, “Well, intriguing is _ one _ way to put it! Hear that, boys and girls? If you’re tired of feeling your wife’s stubbed toes, just forget her — literally!” He laughed, falsely and loudly, and then transitioned seamlessly: “Anyway… it’s time for Tozier’s Freaky Forty — I’m sure ol' Records will tide you over — ”

Eddie switched off the radio at that. He tried to avoid encountering any discussion of marks, but when it happened, he always had to take a minute to process it, and that frustrated him. He needed a moment to think in peace. Mostly he ignored the silver spot that rested, hidden, on his leg, but even a man as skeptical of soulmates as Eddie Kaspbrak was could not be entirely immune to the intrigue on the topic. Had he ever felt phantom pain from his soulmate? No, he didn’t think he had...and he would certainly have noticed some mysterious hurt of his flesh. His soulmate was alive, judging by the mark, so whoever it was simply had to be very far away and did not know him...which was fine. Good, even. He was married, after all, and he loathed the idea of some unexpected element appearing into his careful life to explode it to pieces. 

The irony of finally getting out his life with his mother only to replace it with a woman who could be her sister did not escape him — but by God, what else could he do? He had never managed to live an adult life on his own for very long at all. And he couldn’t ignore that despite everything he did love Myra, in his way. And certainly she loved him. That was a blessing, wasn’t it?

And there was some other thing, some strange nagging thought buried deep in the back of his mind — it wouldn’t happen of course, but what if his soulmate wasn’t —? But even in his own mind he could not say it. 

He wasn’t thinking of that because he had been refusing, quite rightfully, he thought, to think of that for a long time. Years. Many years. It was perhaps cowardly but Eddie could see nothing to be gained be being brave. There was a helluva lot to be_ lost _ from being brave, though.

  
  
  


And really, he was happy enough with his life, wasn’t he? He had Myra, and, well — if what they had wasn’t perfect (and he _ did _ know that it wasn’t —) it was still normal enough. They had sex; it was fine; and they could be gentle to each other; they had little talks and little jokes and he called her _ Marty _ and despite all the horrible underlying things he loved her and she loved him. So — a soulmate would be an unneeded burden. ( _ My God — it would break her heart. _) 

(_If she knew — if she knew that — _

_ Oh God if his mother had known that — _)

But there was no use to that train of thought, so he always tried to cut it off at the head when it got started. No utility in considering things that couldn’t be. Eddie tried not to indulge in such exercises. 

  
  
  


_ Once, when he was fresh out of college he had lived in his own apartment by himself and that apartment had contained a gym. Eddie was not a frequenter, but he had been bold back then, and he had gone sometimes and jogged on the elliptical or the track. He liked the feeling of sweat in the lower curve of his back, even if the tightness that came to his chest sometimes scared him. It was a familiar fear, after all. _

_ There was another man who he saw several times and who he paid attention to. He did not know this man’s name when he first noticed him, but he eventually learned that it was Dave. Dave never knew Eddie’s name and in all likelihood never noticed Eddie to begin with. _

_ Dave was around his age. Maybe a little bit older, or he just seemed settled. He lifted weights while Eddie jogged on the track that circled over-top the basketball courts. Neither of them ever set foot on the courts themselves; and Eddie felt bolstered by the way that Dave stuck to solo workouts, just like he did. _

_ If you asked him he couldn’t have told you why it was that he paid attention to Dave — and that was how he thought of it. He was looking or staring he was just — paying attention. And that was all. They never once spoke. Not long after his last gym visit, Eddie moved back in with his mother. He did not look at men. Eventually, he stopped thinking about Dave. _

_ (There was an ease to the manner in which Eddie was not brave. He had learned the lesson of fearing his own desires quite well.) _

V.

Ben Hanscom knew the woman at the little table a few feet away from the bar was looking at him. The lighting was dim, and he thought that the bartender had probably assumed that Ben hadn’t noticed, but he had. As much at the bartender paid close attention to him, Ben paid close attention to that woman and the swept-up mass of dark brown hair that framed her pretty face. She kept flickering her made-up eyes over near him and lingering her gaze. Real delicate, real soft — but he noticed it. Of course he did. 

She really was quite lovely. Easy on the eyes, as they said. She was drinking a vodka cranberry and Ben had thought about buying her another one, but he didn’t want her to think he was trying to get her drunk. He didn’t even want her to think he was interested because the truth was that he wasn’t, not really. There were plenty of women in Ben’s life that he could’ve maybe had something with, but he didn’t — he did not have a girlfriend, and he had not had a girlfriend in years. 

  
  


It wasn’t that Ben’s time away from Derry was one long arduous slog in which he had no friends and no relationships. Rather, he simply regressed to a similar status to that which he’d had as a child — he was not particularly lonely, because he did not know what it was like to be not-lonely. He had forgotten. 

It wasn’t a tragedy...it wasn’t even really very sad. Ben had been a gentle and sensitive soul as a child and he had grown up into a kind and thoughtful adult. Thoughtful, as in: he liked to think, to consider. He made things with his hands and he mulled things over in his mind. He was good for long conversations about books; he even make little specific jokes about them, if you engaged with him for long enough. And of course it did not hurt that he was handsome. Plenty of women liked him, and occasionally he liked them back. It never went anywhere, but that was fine. It was all _ fine_. 

“You want another round, Ben?” the bartender asked him, sounding almost hopeful. If Ben wanted to make a move, now was the time.

“No thanks, Ricky Lee,” Ben said, giving him a soft smile. “I think I’ll head on home now.” And he did; back to his big empty house.

VI.

Audra woke up crying. Or at least, Bill woke up to find her already awake, and in tears; she looked at him with wide terrified eyes, and he could feel the sharpness of the emotions she was clearly feeling — he thought, _ Maybe this is like being soulmates, sharing that pain. _

Except for that it was the very issue of soulmates that was making Audra sob like her heart was breaking. In fact, her heart was already broken — she had a mark on her stomach that was a soft faded gray. She had had a soulmate, once, but he was dead. She had in fact never even met him.

“Why couldn’t I stop it?” Audra said. She was no longer sobbing, but it was obvious she had been — it was the noise of that that had pulled him from sleep. Bill thought that the quiet stillness she was slipping into might actually be even worse. “If it’s so — I mean if we were so fucking _ well-matched _by the universe or God or whatever then why —”

Bill didn’t know the answers to her questions, but then maybe no one did (although a priest or a philosophy professor might try to offer one).

“I’m sorry, Audra,” he said, and put his arms around her. In all honesty he didn’t know what else to do. How could a man justify to his wife that her pre-destined lover was dead, and he was now all that she had? There was simply no reasonable away around it. He didn’t try. Their relationship was built on a foundation that required that they both told the truth, even when it hurt. He hated to hurt her, but sometimes it was necessary. At least he could wipe away her tears, this time; her soul-mark had faded before they even met. 

He pulled her close and swept her hair back off her face so that she cry herself out in peace, if she wanted. Seeing her like this was rare enough that it engaged some primal fear in himself, and he rubbed at his own eyes, too.

“I’m sorry, Audra,” he said again. That was about the long and short of it. There was nothing else he knew how to say.

VII.

Mike wished that he could say something very brave and noble like, _ I don’t want to call them but I know that I have to, I know that it’s time_. But the truth was that he was scared and tired, exhausted even, and he just desperately wanted someone to share the burden. Anyone, really. He dreamed of the Losers almost nightly; he kept hearing their voices in his mind, voices drawn from memories that every over person who possessed them had forgotten, which was disturbing in its own way.

It could’ve been anyone, that first call, and it could’ve been anyone that he called last. He had no order written out; he accepted fate for that. Fate or whatever you might want to call that other thing, (_that Other presence — _), the force, that had helped tie seven young souls together. 

_ Alright, then, _ he thought, _ here we go_. And he picked up the receiver even though his hands would surely shake. To his surprise, they did not. His hands held steady.

His heart didn’t hold half as well. He could feel it pounding away in his chest, like running too-fast and too-long. Like being chased. (He had plenty memories of that). 

It had to be them. It had to be them all, and it had to be them all _ now. _ Oh, God help them.

  
  
  


Connecting each call felt like a hundred years. He had practiced saying all of their names aloud in the months before his fateful calls; molding his mouth around the words until they fit just right. Otherwise he thought his mouth might very well revert back to childhood and he’s just say, _ Stan? Big Bill? Hey, is this Trashmouth? _

“Hello — Uris residence,” Stanley Uris said. His voice was a grown-up voice, deeper and stronger than the voice Mike had been hearing in his dreams. Grown-up Stan sounded vaguely confused, and a little distracted. He was listening with one ear, attention elsewhere. There was some faint noise over the line. Probably he was watching TV. Mike felt guilt churn in his stomach, but he had to do this. _ Someone _ had to. So he did.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we reach 1985.


	4. Stanley Uris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stanley Uris does not get ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is where things start to really diverge.
> 
> Content warning: this chapter contains a retelling of Stanley's bath and all that comes with that territory. Warnings for suicidal ideation and continuous suicidal thoughts; self-harm; fatalistic thinking; a suicide attempt; his wife's reaction to said attempt.

Bill Denbrough woke up in what was for him the middle of the night, because there was pain in his forearm so acute that he felt like he was on fire. 

He tossed the blankets off him, gasping, and Audra sat up beside him, blearily rubbing at her eyes.

“Bill?” she said.

_ Oh God! _ Bill’s mind was shrieking. _ Jesus Christ what did I do I’m bleeding everywhere — _ but he wasn’t. The thing was, he realized as he patted down his arm, that it wasn’t _ his _ pain. It wasn’t a dream, either, because he was still fucking feeling it. 

He looked over at Audra, who was blinking at him in sleepy confusion. It wasn’t _ her _ pain, either. 

“Fuck!” He said aloud, and fumbled for the phone. 

Mike picked up almost immediately. In Maine, it was the early evening. 

“Bill,” Mike said. His voice was shaky, rough. He sounded is if he was the one who’d shot awake in the middle of the night. “You hurt your arm just now?”

“No,” Bill said. “I didn’t. But Mikey — I fuh-_feel _ it.” 

There was silence over the line for a moment. Then Bill said, “I think it’s Stan.” And they both knew that it was.

“He sounded strange over the phone,” Mike said. His breath hitched, and for a moment Bill thought he was going to break. But he stood strong.

“I’m going to hang up now, Big Bill,” Mike said. “I’m gonna call Patty Uris.” 

“Yeah,” Bill said. “Call me back as soon as you can, but I might...I might miss it. I’m on my way over, okay? Right now. Just — hang on.” 

“See you,” Mike said, his voice quiet, vague...terrified. There was a click as he set the phone down, and Bill was left alone in his bed with his tired, confused wife beside him.

“That was him again, wasn’t it,” Audra said. “Your childhood friend from Maine. The one you’re seeing in the morning.” 

“Yeah,” Bill said. He was staring down as the scar on his palm, willing it to give him an answer to what the Hell just happened. It didn’t. When he and Mike had been talking, the pain had vanished as quickly as it came, but he still felt shaky from the echo of it. 

“Except it can’t wait till the morning. Audra, I’m sorry, but I have to go. As soon as I can. I have to be there.” _ I have to take their hands. Like we did...a long time ago. _

Audra just looked at him. There was sleep still in her eyes, but worry too, maybe even fear. Bill’s skin prickled into gooseflesh; but he couldn’t comfort her, because she was right to be scared.

Bill kissed his wife chastely on the mouth and then climbed out of bed. “Pick up the phone if it rings, will you? I’m sorry, Audra.” She just nodded in acknowledgement. 

*

Stanley Uris did not want to leave his wife. The thought of that had not once flitted across his mind in their years together, that is how far away it was from his worldview. He could be angry or upset with her — or at least he could hypothetically, he couldn’t really recall ever actually managing it — and certainly he could be, had been, sad to fail her by not giving her the children he knew she wanted just as much as he did. 

But there was no part of him that wanted a life without her. That was a hard thing to reconcile. He was not thinking of it when he folded his clothes up and set them aside. 

What he was thinking was simply, _ This doesn’t make any sense. _ What I just remembered can’t possibly be true, because it fundamentally does not make sense. But he knew also that it _ was _ true, and therein lay the problem. The creature that was not a bird ( — was not even a spider — ) could not exist in any version of the world that Stan could accept. It was evil, it was vile, but more than anything, it was _ impossible_.

Terror did not give due justice to the feeling that gripped Stan Uris. It was a full-on, total mental _ rejection _ that he felt. 

The problem of It was simply too big a problem for Stan to comprehend, let alone solve. He wanted _ out_. (He thought — Hell he _ knew _ that it was not simply a difficult problem, but that it was an impossible one — how do you stop something that cannot exist to begin with?) He was a fool for ever thinking such things could be possible, but then, children were allowed such fool’s dreams. He was an adult now and could not lie to himself like that. If he returned to Derry, that would be marching to his death, and marching beside him would be the best friends he'd ever had.

Who the fuck could stomach that? He couldn’t see their faces again. He desperately did not want to. To see how they changed, how they grew, only to have it be snuffed away as it certainly would be — oh God what sort of monster would he be to want that? 

The only way to do this would be remotely kind would be something painless, like taking too many pills or breathing in carbon monoxide. But he didn’t have those on hand. There was a set of razors under the sink. He had never thought of using them to hurt himself before, but now in his determined haze he took one out and held it by the blade; the sharp edge cut slightly into the tip of his pointer finger, drawing some tiny amount of blood. He felt nothing over the steady pounding of his pulse. 

_ I’m so sorry, my darling, _ Stanley Uris thought, because of course he had already decided on what he was going to do. It would hurt her — God it would gut her even if it didn’t hurt her physically but it _ would _ — but he had to. He didn’t know how not to do what he was about to do, no matter how cruel and unimaginable it was. 

He would be fast. He could give her that much, at least. He turned and locked the door, something he never did. He would cut deep and cut fast. It was still a monstrous cruelty but his mind was already screaming at him; he was on the verge of total collapse. It was the best he could do and he prayed to whoever was listening that it would be enough, that Patricia Blum Uris would be alright.

Stan turned the knob of the bath with steady hands. His mind, now that the act was beginning, fell — not quiet, but quieter. The screaming became a dull roar. It sounded to him like peace.   
  


The pain that came was so sharp and so sudden that the can of beer in Patty Uris’ hand tumbled from her suddenly-loose grip and clattered to the floor. It did not burst, but she would not have cared in the slightest if it had. 

The spare key turned in the lock, and Patty threw open the door; her speed and boldness implying a courage that did not exist.

Her husband was sitting in the drawn bath. The water was pink with his blood. There was a flash of silver blade in his — Oh God in his — 

“Stanley?” she said, like a question, and he stared up at her with wide dark eyes.

Stanley shook himself like he was coming out of a trance, and he said, “Patty?” with the razor blade still stuck in the flesh of his arm.

Patty made a sound like a wounded animal, and Stan’s mouth parted slightly in surprise or pain or horror. Patty was frozen for a long horrendous moment, and then she grabbed at the hand towel they kept by the sink because she had no idea what else to do. She wrapped the cloth around her husband’s wound and pressed tight, pretending that she couldn’t still see the wound in her mind’s eye. 

“The hospital,” she said in a desperate gasp. It was like her mind was working in half-time. “I have to — to call —” as she said it she became aware that in the other room, the phone was ringing. 

_ But the Turtle can’t help us? _ She thought, absurdly. And then. _ It’s Stan’s old friend calling him back, I just know it. _ She was of course correct on both counts. 

“I’m sorry,” her husband was saying, sounding dazed beneath her hands. “I was trying to be quick.” 

She wanted to vomit all over the floor of their bathroom but she swallowed once, twice, three times, and then she said, “Will you keep pressure on it while I go call?” 

Stanley nodded at her. She stared at him for a long moment, because as awful as it was — she couldn’t trust him. She couldn’t. But she had to.   
  


There was a long horrible ride to the hospital in which Patty wanted to hold her husband’s hand, but couldn’t. There was noise and commotion and busy EMTs being very kind to her but she couldn’t hear them, she couldn’t process what they were saying. Everything was loud and overwhelming in her mind Stanley’s blood was staining the bathwater pink and the sides of the bath pink and the floor of the bathroom bright red. She heard a telephone ringing, in her mind, and she thought, _ I should call his friend back and tell him what happened._ It was an absurd thing to think; if she should call anyone it should obviously be Stan’s parents or her parents but — but God she felt there were others out there, too, that needed to know what was happening.

Every now and then the sharp pain of Stan’s arm cut into her thoughts and she’d clutch helplessly at her forearm. One of the emergency workers saw her doing it and looked at her with pity in his eyes; she thought maybe that made him increase Stanley’s pain medication because the sharp horrible ripping pain of it faded into a dull ache. They pulled up to the hospital and got ready to unload; Patty leaned forward towards Stan’s stretcher and said, “I love you, Stanley.” _ Please stay with me. If that’s too hard — _ she wanted to say that she would forgive him. But she was not sure that she would, and she found that she could not say it. 

*

On the other side of the country, Rich Tozier was gearing up to leave. He was stressed out of his god-damned gourd and he was pretty sure that if he tried to eat anything in the next three-to-five hours, it’d come right back up, but — still. He was going to Derry, and panicking about it only mildly.

At one point, he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his arm, and thought, _ What the fuck? Did I pull a muscle packing? _ Even though the only packing he’d really done was throwing clothing into a duffel. _ My soulmate? — _he thought blankly, then shook his head as if to clear it. He was starting to remember something, but his mind was resistant to it. And unlike Stanley Uris and Michael Hanlon, there was no knowledge at his core about any Other being that could help or not help him. 

His mind was racing on without him, like it had so often when he was a strange and impulsive child who specialized in very poor impressions. At the airport, he wore sunglasses and tried not to speak to anyone when not remotely necessary — for the first time in a long time, he was terrified that something completely unexpected might leap off his tongue.   
  


Eddie Kaspbrak felt more free behind the wheel of his borrowed limousine than he had in a long time. He was trying not to think about that, though. (He was mostly failing).

He thought instead about the asthma attack he had almost had on the train over. He was thinking about the way the man across from him had looked at him, and he was trying to process how that made him feel. He didn’t have the words for it; for the strange embarrassment and shame — but then, there were a great many things that Eddie experienced but did not have words for. It was sort of his specialty. He was usually quite good at not thinking of it, but now he was floundering. And just when he really needed to be brave, too.

He bit his lip until it hurt. He wanted to draw blood, but found he couldn’t. It was all so very absurd.

When a brief spasm of pain sliced up his left forearm, he ignored it.   
  


There were times when, in being friends with someone in as fragile of a situation as Beverly Marsh was in, you were worried. And then there were other times when you were terrified.

Kay McCall was terrified. 

She was terrified that her friend — a beautiful woman, a smart woman, a clever funny nicotine-addicted total _ jerk _ of a woman — was going to be killed by her shitbag husband and maybe that thought was in the back of her mind all the goddamned time but this time it was real, this time it really might happen.

Kay McCall wanted to cry, but she didn’t. 

She didn’t feel any pain when Tom Rogan hit his wife, because she and Beverly were not soulmates. But they were _ friends _ and so she was knees-knocking, hair-pulling, goosebumps-raising _ terrified_. 

*

“Mrs. Uris,” someone was saying forcefully, “you need to sit down.”

Patty sat. Her mind was so tired of screaming and screaming and beating its fists around the closed walls of her thoughts that when told to do something by an authoritative tone, she simply did it.

“Where’s Stanley?” she said. If she got an answer, she couldn’t hear it. “I need to call his parents,” she pleaded. She wondered, vaguely, if she was crying. She thought she might be, but she couldn’t feel her face, so she couldn’t really tell. Her forearm hurt rather a lot. She pressed a hand to it, but that didn’t help. 

*

Ben Hanscom had really hoped that the whiskey would help. Help with _ what_, he was less clear on. The silver dollars were part of it. Definitely, the silver dollars were part of it. And Beverly was part of it. Oh, that’s right — he was starting to remember Beverly. He was thinking of an ankle bracelet on a preteen leg. No, actually — he wasn’t thinking of that. That was what the whiskey was for. He was trying not to remember.

Mostly, he was failing.

Worst of all, he knew he didn’t really _ want _ to fail. He _ wanted _ to remember. He missed his friends. The pain that sliced down his arm hadn’t scared him off. He wanted to run towards it and use his hands to mend it like he used his hands to build things. He could do it, dammit. He fucking wanted to.   
  


Bill Denbrough was an ungodly number of miles above the Earth, going faster than man had the right to go, and he was pissed off at his seatmate for catching him a few times with his elbow. It was all so stupid. He felt more insane than he had felt in a long time. Since his brother died, maybe. He’d been just a kid then. A stupid stuttering kid. God, it was all starting to come back. He wished it wouldn’t, but when his mind caught on each memory, he refused to let them go. He kept thinking about Stanley and then wishing he hadn’t. He kept thinking of Audra and then wishing he hadn’t. He kept thinking of Mike and wishing he could call him back already.   
  


There were more important things that Beverly Marsh could be thinking of than a poem that a boy had written her when she was eleven years old. Certainly there were. But she couldn’t get her mind to settle on them; she kept imagining a flash of silver in the dark dampness, and her mind would skitter away from it like a frightened animal. Hell, she _ felt _ like a frightened animal. 

But the poem made her feel safe. So it did. She had a hand pressed against the screaming pain in her arm for a good half hour (the pain itself faded, but she was oddly terrified that it might come back, so she kept her hand pressed close —), but still in some strange and probably foolish way she felt safe. 

  
*

Patty Uris did not pick up the phone. In fact, no one at all at the Uris residence had picked up the phone. Mike should’ve expected this, but he hadn’t. It was possible he’d been distracted by the knife-edge of blistering pain that’d seared up his arm. He hadn’t expected that — and he’d expected a lot of things. He tried to be prepared. He had seven helmets all lined up and ready to protect their wearers on a trip down under Derry, Maine. He was currently feeling sick to his stomach with the idea that he might not need all seven. 

_ Oh God_, he thought, _ Oh Jesus, what have I done? _ He didn’t really believe in God, not in the easy way he had as a child, at least. But he had to talk to _ someone_, and Patty Uris had not picked up the phone, and Bill Denbrough was on a supersonic flight across the Atlantic ocean. So yeah, maybe Michael Hanlon, the little church boy — maybe he prayed. 

(There were forces listening that could not do anything. Events on Earth would unfold as they always had — complicated, messy, terrible and beautiful; informed by love but not shaped by it.) 

*

Stanley Uris woke up. He did not open his eyes. He knew instantly that he was not at home, in the bed he shared with his wife. The clinical scent of the hospital room sat heavy in his nose. He remembered something he’d heard about suicidal people — that those who jumped off bridges found themselves desperately regretful on the way down, that they found they wanted to live in the seconds before they hit the ground.

Perhaps that was true for _ them_. But Stanley Uris did not want to open his eyes into the world that he had awoken to. The unsolvable problem was still there. He still couldn’t fix it, and he still couldn’t comprehend it, and now he hurt. He ached. He knew Patty was aching too, and maybe — (definitely) — that was the worst of it.   
  


Eventually, Patricia Blum Uris had to go home, to the little place with the nice yew hedges that she had _ made _ into a home with her husband. She just went to grab a change of clothes. She did also want to shower, but she couldn’t manage it. She couldn’t go into the bathroom at all. She took a spare toothbrush from her drawer and she brushed her teeth with only water in the kitchen sink. She was there for less than an hour, but it was like fate was leaning towards her side after all (even if God had not fixed things like she’d begged Him to), because during that short window, the telephone rang.

Patty answered it in a daze. “Uris residence,” she said. It couldn’t be her mother. She’d called her mother from the hospital, and she and her father were already on their way down from New York.

“Am I speaking to Patricia Uris?” the voice on the line said. 

She supposed the voice was technically correct. “Yes,” she said. 

The voice turned gentle. “Hi,” it said. “I’m Mike Hanlon. You don’t know me, but your husband and I were friends when we were kids. Back when he lived in Derry. I’m just calling because I’m a little worried about him.”

There was a silence over the line, in which she said nothing. 

“Am I right to be worried?” Mr. Hanlon said. 

She had thought she was through crying for the night, but now she was thinking she might start back up again. She wasn’t sure there was enough liquid left in her worn-thin body to produce tears; but she could always just start wailing, maybe rip out her hair and dress in rags. 

“Yes,” she said in the terrible choked-up thing that was her voice now. “Yes,” she told the stranger over the line who she kind of hated because she was sure, she was _ sure _ that he was the person who had spoken to Stanley right Before. 

“Stanley,” she said, “he—” but she could not say it. Telling her mother had been bad enough.

“Is he alive?” Mike Hanlon asked. His voice cracked just a little. He was choked up. He was trying not to cry. She couldn’t hate him anymore.

“Yes,” she said. “He’s in the hospital. I have to be getting back there, you know.” 

“I’m sure,” Mike said. “I’m...I’m sorry to be calling at all. But would you mind…” she had an odd thought, which was that this sort of hesitance seemed almost out of character for him. “I mean, could you, I mean when you see Stan…could you tell him that Mike sends his love? And, uh, Bill Denbrough, too, and all the rest — he’ll know.”

He would know. A slick thread of fear had shivered up her spine at the naming of that novelist Stan had been reading.

“Stuttering Bill,” she said into the phone. She couldn’t help it.

“What?” Mike Hanlon, off his guard again. “He must’ve...shit. I guess he remembered.” He sounded in awe of something. In awe of her husband. Patty felt tears prick at her eyes. She really was getting so very tired of crying.

“I’ll tell him,” she said. “When he — when he wakes up. He’s sleeping now. That’s why I left.” She thought that if her husband would just let her see him awake she could talk to him about anything, even something as dangerous as his friends apparently were. 

“Thank you,” Mike said, steadily. “I appreciate that, Mrs. Uris, and I’m sorry you’re going through this. I won’t call again, but can you maybe call me back, when — uh. When you feel up to it?” She thought he probably had been going to say, _ When this is all over. _

She told Mike Hanlon that she could do that and she carefully wrote down the number at which he could be reached. Then she gathered up her bag and a few things of Stanley’s that she thought he might like, his watch and his glasses and a sweater he was fond of. For some reason, her hand lingered near a worn old book that, when she tugged it out of the bookshelf to see its cover, turned out to be an encyclopedia of birds. But she hadn’t seen Stan touch that in years, so she left it. All his things would be waiting for him when he — when he came home. 

*

_ Take a good look son, this is your hometown. _ Well, it wasn’t _ yet_. He was still on the wide-open road with his hands curled into a tight grip on the wheel. There was a ways to go yet. _ Come on home. _

Richie ‘Records’ Tozier was creating a mental list of songs centered around, thematically, the conceit of returning home after a time or distance away. It was getting pretty good, if he did say so himself. Only it was a fact that heading to Derry didn’t really feel like heading home. Home was his nice big overpriced apartment, which meant Derry was just the place where the worst thing that had ever happened to him had occurred. 

Great! Richie thought. He smiled a thin and unconvincing smile at his own traitorous internal monologue. Better get home before it’s dark_. Homeward bound. _ Wish I wasn’t, though. _ We gotta get out of this place. _

  
  
  


At his home in Derry, Maine, Mike Hanlon hung up the phone. He was tired of telephones and phone calls. He wondered who would make it back first, which of his friends would bless him with their voice in person, with their presence. He wished that whoever it was would hurry it the Hell up. He could feel the train barreling towards them all now, expect that metaphor was no good, no good at all — there was not something outside of Derry coming in to get them; it was Derry itself that was poised to attack. Or maybe it was like a water-spout, the kind that they had at Yellowstone, the kind he’d never seen because he was stuck here. 

Beneath the Earth that his house was built on, It was shifting and moving and Mike knew — oh, he had always known, really — that he and as many of the lucky seven as could make it had to go down, Down, into-the-black, and cut off Its head before the water-spout of evil erupted into the air. It was the only way. One step after the other. _Come on now, Mikey._

He rubbed at his forearm, although it did not hurt. Then he pressed at the scars on his palm, although they didn’t hurt, either. It was not a nervous habit so much as a grounding technique. He was scared suddenly that it was going to stop working, because even Mike had forgotten a lot and he was just now starting to remember how much that coke bottle had pained him. 

Stanley had made them promise, but now Stanley was sleeping or pretending to sleep in a hospital bed in Atlanta. He wasn’t going to show up.

_ What the fuck have I done? _ Mike Hanlon thought, and he waited, feeling like a ticking time-bomb, for the rest of his friends to arrive. 


	5. Recollections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Losers begin to remember -- whether they like it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: References to violent homophobia & explicitly homophobic violence (in the form of Adrian Mellon's death). 

Big Bill walked in the room Mike had rented at_ Jade of The Orient_, and Richie Tozier thought he looked just grand. There was a disorienting moment at first, actually, where the room seemed to sort of spin and tilt -- not like when you were falling-over drunk but more like when you were dreaming. In that moment he was once again some skinny weirdo with a smart mouth and a habit of getting the shit kicked out of him…a real loser, as they say. And Bill was too, with his too-intense kid eyes, and pretty Bevvie with her ratty sweatshirts and Ben hiding his body and Eddie wheezing in the background sounding like a goddamn tea-kettle...and Stan, who he’d been kind of a shit to sometimes, but who he had deeply loved. _ Well, fuck. _ The Loser’s Club was back, baby. Or, well -- almost.

“So,” he said, evenly, “Anyone wanna talk about the slice up the forearm we all felt? Or at least, I hope we all felt that, or I’ve got some self exploration to --”

Before he could finish his sentence, Beverly cut in: “I felt it, too.” When he turned to look at her, her face was stunningly pale, the spattering of freckles across her nose standing out like stars in a clear night sky. 

Around the table, everyone else was nodding. Except for Eddie, he noted, but Eddie was frowning down at his arm like it’d offended him, so Richie was willing to bet it had pained him, too. 

“Yes,” Mike said, evenly, “I think we all felt that, Rich.” He glanced over at Bill when he said it, like any moment now he was expecting Bill to step in, take control like he had when they were kids. 

“So whatzit mean?” 

“It means that we can’t all be here,” Mike said, coolly and a collective shudder ran through the five of them. Richie saw it in Bill’s eyes.

Mike pursed his lips, and then he made a gesture at Bill, and the both of them sat down next to each other at the table. 

“Stan Uris couldn’t make it,” Mike said, his voice real quiet, “because right now he’s at a hospital in Atlanta. After he took my phone call, he went into the bathroom, and he tried to slice open his wrists. His wife -- his soulmate -- got to him in time, so he’s alive, although he lost a lot of blood. He’s not going to make it to Derry, but he’ll live.” 

Mike looked up, meeting their eyes one by one. At least, anyone who would -- Eddie was still looking down at the table, his mouth pressed shut in a horrible thin line. 

“Fuck,” Beverly said into the ensuing silence. She looked like she wanted to cry, but her eyes were dry. 

“I think the lady speaks for all of us,” Richie said. Suddenly, he was parched. He reached for the beer he’d ordered when they were all waiting; it tasted like nothing on his tongue. 

“I know,” Mike said. “It’s...well. It’s awful. We faced something so terrible that Stan wanted out rather than to face it. But I wouldn’t have called you guys back here if I didn’t think I had to.”

“We know that,” Bill said. He placed a reassuring hand on Mike’s elbow, and Richie watched the look they shared. “It’s not your fault, Mike.”

“Feels like it,” Mike said, softly. Richie winced. Mike had grown up into a short, tired-faced man with kind eyes, and it was all sorts of unfair that these burdens weighed so heavily on him. But as he looked around the table at Bev and Ben and Eddie he thought, Well, none of the rest of us could’ve done it. Even Big Bill -- maybe he was too tired out from carrying all that weight the first time around.

The first time around _ what_, exactly? The -- the first time against _ It_, of course. 

“Let’s eat,” Mike said, into the heady discomfit of the room. “Let’s talk over food. I think it’ll make us feel better.” 

Like clockwork, the waitress appeared, and Mike ordered for them all. They let him, looking at each other with tired and scared eyes, but with no small amount of curiosity, too -- Richie surely was not the only one wondering what his childhood buddies had got up to in the meantime, in the great distance between their youth and their adulthood. 

*

For a while -- Bill wasn’t sure how long, actually, because it had felt so _ easy _ \-- for a while they ate and laughed and drank and it was something really lovely, something glorious -- everything you’d ever dream returning home would ever be. Of course, returning home could never be so easy at that, so it couldn’t last.

“Are we not going to talk about it?” 

They all startled, looking at Eddie, for of course it was Eddie who had spoken. 

“Talk about what, Eddie?” Mike said, carefully. Bill thought he said the way one might talk to a startled animal. 

Eddie grasped his aspirator in one hand, almost reflexively. Bill wondered if it was a nervous habit, one that he did all the time -- in front of his wife, maybe. 

Eddie gritted his teeth. “We _ felt _ it. Even I...well. I ignored it. But when Stan cut his arm, we felt it right _ then_, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” Ben said, abruptly. “We did. I know we did -- at the same time as he was hurting himself, we all hurt too.” 

“It’s like we were soulmates,” Beverly said. No one responded to her, and she chewed her lip as she looked around at all of them, her eyebrows raised in nervous questioning. “I mean -- it is, isn’t it? Like we’re platonic soulmates. Right?”

And it was true. Undeniably, it was true. Hell, the idea had been floating in the back of Bill’s mind since it had happened; he was a man without a soulmate but he’d been reared -- like everyone else -- on tales of shared pain; occasionally shared pleasure, but mostly -- that shared suffering; physical hurt stretched between two people. In this case -- it was stretched between seven. But how could that be so? 

Bill turned towards Mike. He was frowning, clearly about to speak. “There’s something…” Mike said. “Clearly, there’s always been something, sort of...tying us together. I don’t want to say that it’s just fate or what have you, because we _ chose _ each other, I know we did, but -- I mean. We were seven children in the right place at the right time. There was something backing us up, wasn’t there?”

“Yes,” Bill said, although for the life of him he couldn’t remember any details. “Thuh-there _ was_. I know there was...in the sewers…” he trailed off, lost in the sudden, confusing influx of half-baked memories. 

“Maybe that’s what it was,” Mike said. His dark eyes met Bill’s ever-so-briefly, and Bill nodded, pretending that he knew what the Hell he was talking about. “Maybe it...replicated the soulmate bond. I don’t know! Maybe it _ was _ just our friendship. Or some combination of those two things. All I know is that it hurt like Hell...but Stan’s still alive.” 

“Stan the man,” Beverly said, her voice wavering. “I...I wish he was here. He’d definitely have an opinion on this, you know?”

“Yeah,” Richie’s voice came, unexpectedly. When Bill looked over at him, he was frowning down intently at his plate. “That old romantic! He’d have an idea if it had to do with soulmates.” He spoke very authoritatively, as if from experience. Bill bit down on the urge to ask for clarification. 

“He would,” Bill said, in lieu of asking. “We all know he would. And we wish he was here. But we can’t ask for everything…” he faltered, there, because in truth he had no idea how to fix this. How was he supposed to make something alright when it so clearly was not alright at all? 

Mike took up the reins -- like he had been this whole time, really; staying in Derry like a sacrificial lamb that went willingly. “I wouldn’t have called you here if it wasn’t serious,” he said. “It is. Truly it is. I don’t -- I know it’s hard, without Stan. But I need as much of you as you can give. If you need to leave -- fine. But --” 

Around the table, the Losers were shifting. Richie nodded his head, like he had expected it. Beverly was watching with widened eyes; Ben looking between her and Mike with laser focus. Eddie had loosened his grip on his aspirator to eat and he was holding chopsticks delicately between his fingers like they were weapons he didn’t want to touch; his eyes darting between the food and whoever was speaking. He knew that they were all thinking slow, terrifying thoughts; feeling the doubts and fears of every horrible fucking thing that Derry had to offer -- terribly, Bill found himself nodding, too. 

“We know, Mikey,” he said, in his slow practiced voice. He knew the stutter would catch up with him, soon, but he was glad to get that sentence out while he still could. “We know. We’ll fight It with you, okay?” 

_ It. _The pronoun, wielded like an ax. Dripping with fear like Stanley Uris’ dead boy in the Standpipe had dripped with water. That was It, the thing-the-being, underneath Derry. A spider sitting fat and happy in its murderous web.

*

Ben really didn’t want to leave them. He got what Mike was saying, understood his perspective and his ideas, but, in truth -- he simply could not bring himself to want them to split up. He imagined, (somewhat absurdly), herding all the Losers down into the clubhouse that he’d just remembered, and making everyone sit there until this all blew over.

Only, he knew that this wouldn’t blow over. And Stan was still in Georgia, anyway. 

Ben frowned down at the dirt, kicking at nothing with the hard toe of his boot. He didn’t want to go to the library, a place he’d spent so much time alone -- not _ bad _ times, but he’d just got his friends _ back_. And now…

And now _ what? _

Going to the library was _ not _ a mistake. That’s what he kept telling himself as he was walking away from it, anyway; he thought probably he’d got out of it what Mike had sort of expected him to get out of it -- some memories coming back, accompanied by a healthy heaping of fear to go with it. But by golly, it didn’t feel so good. Made him feel like real bugshit, actually. 

It was such a bad, heavy, feeling that he wasn’t watching where he was going, and right outside the Derry Town House he tripped and sprawled, his knees slamming into pavement with a stupidly sharp spike of pain. Ben was not a clumsy man, and the last time he'd fallen like that he’s been far less sober than he was now. He spent a moment just feeling it, reeling in the spiral of pain and knowing it was the sort of pain that hit hard but would fade if he only waited it out. He blinked harshly down at the dark pavement, trying to make sense of his thoughts. Maybe he _ did _ feel almost drunk. 

And then out of the darkness a hand extended itself towards him; a soft, warm, _ familiar _ hand. 

“Looks like you had about a good of a time out there as I did,” Beverly said, smiling ruefully as she helped Ben to his feet.

(There was still a small nervous part of him that said that she should not touch him, and surely she could not bear his weight -- )

“Yeah,” was all Ben said to her. He was still looking off into the dark distance instead of into her eyes. It was possible he was afraid of what he might see, if he looked at her properly. 

He tried to smile back at her, but it seemed that his face was simply unwilling to cooperate. 

“Where did you go?” she said. Now that they were both standing, he had to look down to see her, which was still sort of strange. “I went...Hm. I went to my parent’s apartment. My dad lived there for a long time.” 

“But not anymore?” Ben said. He had been steadily remembering what he thought of Beverly’s father -- nothing good. Nothing good at all.

“No,” she said, after a brief pause. “No, not anymore.” He waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. 

He smiled at her, trying to put her at ease. “I went to the library. I don’t think you ever visited that old place with me, but it was pretty important to me when I was a kid.”

Beverly smiled up at him. He watched the way her mouth curved; the way the little dimple appeared in her cheek. “That’s good! I’m glad you had some place to go, since -- I mean. Since you were so alone.” 

_ Ouch. _ It was true, though. “Yeah,” he said. It was cold out. He was starting to shiver, but Beverly didn’t seem to feel it. Not that he could particularly tell -- she had turned bodily away from him when he wasn’t looking; her shoulders hunched against him. 

“It was…” he didn’t know how to describe it. “At first, it was like I was a ghost, returning to haunt my old spots…and then I saw him, too.” 

Beverly spun on a heel, her eyes wide. So wide and scared. “Him...the clown?”

“Yeah…” Ben couldn’t stop looking into her eyes. Something was unnerving about them -- she was so scared that it was frightening in itself -- 

“Did he talk to you? He...it...talked to me,” Beverly said. She reached a hand up, scratching thoughtlessly at the side of her face like it was itching her. 

“He told jokes,” Ben said. “It wasn’t very funny, though.”

Beverly laughed. “I guess it wouldn’t be, huh? There’s nothing very funny about this situation.”

“There really isn’t.” Everything was so stunted, and Ben suddenly just wanted to get out of this conversation, escape up the stairs to his room, before Beverly realized -- before she recognized what a pathetic strange man she was talking too. 

“It’s sad, really,” Beverly mused. She tapped a slender finger against her lips; he couldn’t look away. “I mean, what a pity, right...that you’re going to die alone!” 

Ben heard her say that as if from very far away. “Bev?”

Beverly’s smile widened into a grin, then kept widening. He was pretty sure her yellow blouse had been un-decorated a moment before, but now it had red pom-poms sprouting down its middle.

“Beverly isn’t fucking _ here_, you pathetic fool,” she said. “Oh! Poor little Benny! You grew up and thought she’d _ liiiike _ you, huh?” Pennywise the clown leaned up towards Ben’s face, Beverly’s face coated in white greasepaint and her mouth growing fangs.

“She _ won’t, _ ” Pennywise hissed, and then he stood on his toes -- on Bev’s toes -- and he gripped the sides of Ben’s face. “You thought growing up and getting pretty would be enough for her to like you? Our darling Mrs. Rogan isn’t that shallow. If she _ was _ she’d never have married Tom!” 

Pennywise clenched clawed fingers against Ben’s cheeks, and pulled him in to kiss him. Ben couldn’t move, couldn’t blink; he was like a fucking statue and the horrible Thing still had Beverly’s face and _ hewastouchingitOhGod _ \--

It broke the kiss and wrenched Beverly’s head back on her neck, cackling in joy and excitement. His lipstick was smeared, and Ben could feel it on his lips. For a moment he was still frozen, frozen, _frozen, _but then some remnant of the eleven year old who wrote a little poem in the Derry Public Library reared his head and Ben squeezed his eyes tight shut and bellowed, “_No! _” 

He reached out blindly until his hands felt Its shoulders and he shoved it away from him. “No! _ Leave me alone! _ I never wanted this! _ Beverly is my friend!” _

“Your _ friend?! _” The clown was laughing when Ben opened his eyes. “Don’t play with little old Bobbie, he knows the difference between friends and lovers!” 

The clown started jumping up in down in some horrible happy dance. “Lovers! Girlfriends! That’s what _ you _ want, I _ know! _ Except --” and the grin it grinned was finally just its own wicked smile, not Beverly’s at all. “You just want the one. _ Juuust _ Beverly! How romantic! Is she your _ soulmate_?”

Ben’s heart was still going a mile a minute from merely touching the damn thing on its shoulders. Desperately, he reached up and wiped at the side of his face. His hand came away a horrible mixture of red and white. 

“No,” the clown said, and now his smile was an exaggerated frown. “She isn’t, is she…Oh, poor Benny. All alone! Old Bobbie, he knows that feeling too...and soon you’ll be joining him.” The frown deepened, becoming impossible and crooked and _ evil. _ “Soon you’ll be joining ME!” 

Pennywise gave a sudden terrible grin once more, and then he pressed a hand over his mouth, tilting it towards Ben like he was blowing a kiss his way. 

Ben, his heart pounding like mad; tears springing to his eyes -- he blinked. When he opened his eyes, Pennywise was gone, and he was standing alone in the lawn of the Derry Town House, once more. 

*

Mike Hanlon had not manifested a soul-mark yet, and at this point he suspected he never would. He didn’t mind so much -- he got the idea of it, the high-romance of it all, but it wasn’t really _ him. _ Perhaps that was just the isolation of a town librarian speaking, but even if they _ did _ miraculously manage to get out of this situation alive, he thought he’d like to take normal life slow. There was Carole, of course, and he thought it’d be nice to go on a date with her, maybe even make love once or twice, but they weren’t _ soulmates_. The fact that they weren’t took the pressure off nicely. 

He watched Bill, bent in concentration over the 7-buck bicycle repair kit and lost from the rest of the world around him. “Hey, Big Bill -- can I ask you something?”

Bill blinked away from Silver as if coming out of a trance. “Huh? Oh, yeah, ask away, Mikey.”

“You and your wife soulmates? Feel free to tell me to fuck off if it’s too personal.” 

Bill laughed, turning fully to face Mike, and leaned back on his hands. “I guess it is personal, but we’ve never really been too cagey about it. No, we’re not -- I don’t have a soul-mark, and she has a faded one.”

Mike winced a little at that. “I’m sorry. She ever get to know her soulmate?” 

Bill shook his head. “No -- it manifested and then faded only a month later. She never found out who it was.” He chewed his lip, pondering. “I thought that was pretty damn sad when I heard it, but she handled it well for the most part. Audra’s a trooper. Plus she…wasn’t at her best at the time it manifested. She said she would’ve been embarrassed to meet anyone then, much less her soulmate.” Bill neglected to mention that she had in fact met _ him _ less than a year after this. 

“If a soulmate’s love is as pure as the stories say, then I’m sure whoever it was wouldn’t have judged her.” 

Bill smiled. Mike wondered if he realized how fond he looked when he thought of his wife. “Still. That sort of sweeping narrative is a lot of pressure, right? Honestly, I’m glad I don’t have a soul-mark.”

Mike laughed. “Can’t say I don’t feel the same.” 

“That mean there’s no one in your life here in Derry?’

“Nope,” Mike said, popping the ‘p’. Bill didn’t need to be regaled with tales of inter-library almost-romances.

“Aw, that’s too bad, Mikey.” 

Mike laughed, and that made Bill grin -- which was the reaction he’d wanted. “I thought we just both agreed that maybe that was fine?”

Bill had one hand on the wheel of his old bike, but the other tap-tapped nervously on the floor. “I really think it is, honestly. I just want you to be happy, though -- I mean, Hell, after all this shit you deserve it, right?” 

Mike smiled, and then bent down to grasp the wheel-pump in his hands. “Well, I’d like to think I do. But I don’t know, Bill -- isn’t getting everyone back here enough to ask for, right now?” 

Bill’s eyes flicked over him, and then he lifted the pump gently out of Mike’s hands. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “It just kinda feels like we’re all barely h-holding it together, you know?”

“Yeah,” Mike said. He set his hand down on his knees and watched Bill continue the work. This was what he’d been waiting for, but it still felt foreign and odd. “I know, Billy.” He hadn’t called Bill that in nearly thirty years.

He swallowed, nervously -- he kept half-expecting the clown to jump out of every shadow. But they were alone, apart from the quiet ticking of Silver's spinning wheels. 

*

There was a version of this story where, Richie assumed, he would’ve made eye contact with Eddie at the _Jade_ and it all would’ve come rushing back instantaneously. Movie magic. Except that there already was too much magic in the version of the story that he was living, and anyway, if it’d happened like that...well! It’d be a love story.

But this was really not that sort of tale. At least he was trying to convince himself that it wasn’t. 

It was strange, the way it was coming back -- it seemed to be happening the same way to all of them (perhaps it hadn’t for Stan and that was why -- but he couldn’t think about that); the memories coming back in stages. The information was all there, he knew it was, but it was like fog on an old winding road or something; he could only see so far ahead of him. 

He had to take out his contacts, but he couldn’t remember just yet why the pain was so familiar. 

He pressed a hand to his hip, absently, like he often did, and he remembered --

_ Oh, fuck_. He remembered standing ankle-deep in a stream of his own making, dirty-cold water numbing his feet, and he had looked up and he had seen his soulmate.

_ Eddie. _

Oh!

_ Eddie, Eddie, Eddie; _ and briefly and suddenly Rich Tozier’s mind lost all capacity for anything other than a hurried stream of recollection, a barrage like opened floodgates; _ Eddie my love! _ There was teasing and playing and lying next to each other, sharing comic books and listening to Little Richard on Richie’s radio, and _ Jesus fucking Christ, how the Hell could he ever have forgotten? _

“Eds?” He said, out loud; his voice trembled with it. Tears were pricking at his eyes, and fuck that, fuck crying so much more in a few days than he had in a literal decade, but --

_ Eddie! _ His mind sang it, and it sounded a little like love. He loved all his friends, of course, and -- no, actually, let Records Tozier sit with that one for a minute, _ he loved his friends, _ and among even them, Eddie was special. 

A shiver ran down Richie’s spine. He shoved his glasses up and rubbed at his eyes. Oh, what the Hell was he supposed to do with this?

He was so shaken-up that he almost missed the pamphlet being proffered into his hands. For a long moment, he just stared at the paper blankly; then the man who handed to him said, “You’ll come, won’t you?”

Richie stared down at it. “Huh?” he said. The flyer seemed to have _RICHIE TOZIER’S ALL-DEAD ROCK SHOW_ blazoned across the front of it, but that was impossible.

Richie looked up and met Adrian Mellon’s eyes.

That man was dead, of course; he was in fact one of the most crucial points in Mike’s story. Richie had looked at the photograph of the murdered man because when Mike mentioned him, Eddie had clasped at his aspirator. So it was utterly impossible for Adrian to be standing in front of Richie right then.

Admittedly, he _did_ look dead. His face was too-pale; his lip purple-blue; there were blood- and gore- stains all down his front. 

“Hullo, Richie,” Adrian said. “You’re really looking lively. Looking alive, I mean. You’ll come, right?” 

He stuck out his hand again, and there was a blood splatter on it. Richie took the pamphlet, wordlessly. 

“I _do_ hope you’ll come,” Pennywise said out of Adrian Mellon's mouth. “I _do_ hope so. It just wouldn’t be the same without _you_ there, Rich, it really wouldn’t. D’you know why? I mean, d’you know WHY?”

“Shut up!” Richie said, and pretended it didn’t come out pained, like he was talking around razor blades embedded in his throat. “You’re not even a very good clown, when was the last time you told a joke that was actually_ funny _\--”

The clown’s eyes widened into impossible circles. “Not _ funny_, you say? Oh but Richie, it’s just a little game we’re playing! Like looking in a fun-house mirror!” And suddenly the clown wasn’t Adrian Mellon at all; it was Richie, he was looking at his own _ face _ \--

“You know what happens to little boys like you in Derry, don’t you?” Adrian-Richie said, and then he grinned. 

Richie thought his hands might be shaking but he wasn’t sure -- he couldn’t see them. He wanted to throw up, but his couldn’t make his body move enough to manage even that. He could only take a single stuttering step back, away from It. 

“You KNOW, Richie! You KNOW!” The monster that lived under Derry said, again, smiling its horrible-cruel smile, and Rich Tozier _ did _ know. 

He thought, _ So maybe the first time I had sex with a man I was twenty-three years old and I thought it would hurt, I thought he would hurt me, but he was so gentle and he was real sweet with me, he touched the back of my neck and he held me close and he made me breakfast in the the morning but I was still scared. _

_ Doesn’t mean I’m ashamed of it, it just means I know it’s not my scene, kid, not my style -- not Records Tozier, yanno? And maybe, maybe it was a long time before I let another man touch me but that’s just a coincidence, I like girls better anyway, I mean I always knew -- _

_ I always knew -- _

_ I always fucking _thought_ I knew that my soulmate would be a woman because I wanted to fall in love with her and it’s different between men, isn’t it? It’s not real love and that’s all I ever fucking wanted. Is that so wrong? _

“Is that a question I see on your face, Richie Tozier?” It said, grinning at him in a horrible reflection of his own smile. “Perhaps Pennywise has the answer! Oh, but I’m just a clown!” Richie’s face shifted, and it was just Adrian again; dead Adrian Mellon, a man Richie had never known and never would know.

“I think your question is about soulmates,” Adrian said. “Isn’t it? My boyfriend was my soulmate, actually. Did you know that, Rich? I bet you didn’t.”

That was true; Richie hadn’t. Suddenly, he was really starting to find it quite difficult to breathe. 

“It’s true! Don was my soulmate. I have the mark right here --” Adrian placed a hand over his chest -- “over my heart. Very romantic. Or at least that’s what I thought. You can’t really see it anymore, of course.” He opened his shirt, and underneath it was a bloody red pulp of flesh and muscle and organs. 

At that, Richie really did throw up, falling to his knees. He coughed out the last of the bile in his throat and stared back up at Adrian. Was it over yet? Was the nightmare done? Because something like this couldn’t be real.

“You still have your soul-mark,” Adrian said. His voice was so soft now that Richie had to strain his ears to hear it. “How lucky. That’s so_ lucky_, Rich.” As he said it, his face shifted once again. But this time it was not to match Richie’s face.

Richie stared up at Eddie; Eddie’s tired face on Adrian’s body. 

“No,” he gasped, around the bile. 

“_Yes_,” Eddie said. “It’s me, Rich. It’s _always _ been me.” 

“I know,” Richie said, and horribly, the tears that he’d been fighting before had started to come back. His eyes tickled with them. He blinked furiously. “I’m really sorry, Eds.” 

“Don’t call me that!” Eddie said. He raised a hand as if to strike Richie, but Richie didn’t flinch. He noticed that, while Eddie would never in a hundred years wear clothes like Adrian was wearing, the vision in front of him had a large ruby ring on his pinky finger, just like Eddie. 

“I really hate it, you know,” Eddie said, frowning down at Richie in that angry way of his. “It’s really disgusting that you say that shit to me, Rich. It’s almost like you’re a --” 

“Stop it!” Richie cried, and he didn’t fucking care that his voice cracked halfway though it. “Shut up! _ Shut the fuck up! _ You’re not Eddie!” 

Eddie-Adrian _ smiled. _ “That’s true,” he said. “I’m not!” He leaned down, so that his slender body was looming over Richie’s prostrate form. “So what are you so afraid of, Rich?”

He grinned, then stood up straight. He wasn’t very tall but the tight pants made his legs look long; the flashy shirt emphasizing his torso. “Are you afraid of ME, Rich?” Adrian -- because it was just Adrian again -- said. “WELL? Are you?” 

He leaned back on his heel and he laughed and laughed and _laughed_; as Richie Tozier slammed his fist into the dirt and screamed into the night air around him until the vision of Adrian Mellon was as gone as Adrian Mellon the man was. Richie stayed there, curled on the ground, for a solid five minutes, until he stopped shaking.


	6. 'To the Losers'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Losers propose a toast, then see a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for: homophobia (internalized & externalized), incl. prejudice against people with HIV/AIDS; incl. one slur (a direct book quote); reference to Beverly's abusive father & her abusive husband; reference to suicide & suicidal ideation; self-harm. Please see end notes for details on Eddie's scene.
> 
> This chapter is...quite a bit longer than I intended it to be! Turns out a lot of things happen in this book and it's hard to juggle 7+ characters at once, lmao

I.

Eddie Kaspbrak was not thinking about what he had seen at the old overgrown baseball pit. Well, he was trying not to -- it was hard to avoid, harder even than usual. The memories from 1958 kept bubbling up like some terrible geyser; he couldn’t suppress them, he’d get carried away in the flood if he tried. He kept trying to shift his thoughts to Derry in general, but that was leading him down a spiral that he was realizing he was terrified to see the end of. 

It went like this: at some point in his youth there had been a polio scare in Derry. No swimming pools; limited playtimes -- for a brief and awful moment, Eddie thought wryly, all of Derry had played by his mother's rules. Just toss in a ‘no running’ too, for good measure, and she’d maybe give it her stamp of approval.

Conversely: at some point in the 1970s, a homosexual flight attendant had sex with too many other men and became Patient Zero, spreading AIDS to men around New York and eventually, the world. He got sick and he made other people sick, too. The contagion was not found in swimming pools but in bath-houses, or in the bedrooms of the incurable, if they were so bold. 

Probably, no one had written anything disparaging on the Kissing Bridge about polio. But Eddie was standing on that bridge now, looking at a graffiti that read: AIDS FROM GOD YOU HELLBOUND HOMOS. 

He was _ making _ himself look at it. He didn't know why; there was no utility to it.

Actually, that was a lie. He did know why; it was just one of those things he Didn't Think About. There were so many of them -- it was hard to keep track. And God, he was losing the plot, these last few days -- memories from the past and voices from the past, clamoring in his head for attention.

The leper -- he’d almost forgotten about the leper. That was a terrifying thing in itself, because the leper had scared him right down to his bones when he first saw him. The leper was a man who was sick -- Eddie remembered now, that when he’d told Bill and Richie about seeing it for the first time, they’d thought it was just a regular man. It was not even unreasonable; there were lots of sick people on the earth, after all. Eddie should know, he was one of them. 

But the leper was sick with the sort of sickness you got from wanting. From taking, too, but the wanting was important -- because Eddie never took, but Eddie _ wanted_. The leper touched men, and the men became sick. Eddie did not touch men, but --

_ This is the story of how you get sick and die and this story, they’ve been telling it since you were young, and it marches up and down in your head and it steps in unison and this is what the story says: there was a little boy and he was not very strong, he had always been sickly, and his mother did her damnedest to protect him but she is going to fail. She is about to fail because he’s about to do something terrible. Oh God, Eddie, there’s something you’ve always known about yourself, isn’t there? Isn’t there? _

That was the secret; that was the terrible thing -- he was gay, he was a homosexual, he was...he was one of those men. _ Wasn’t he? _ Hadn’t he always been? It sent a shudder down his spine, but it was true. Of course it was. It was not so much a realization as it was an innate understanding. 

Vaguely, almost idly, he wondered if Myra knew. His mother almost certainly had known, before she died. He’d been obvious, hadn’t he? Obviously ill. 

When he was a child he had once thought,_ If I had a soulmate I think it would be another boy. _The thought had been buried so thoroughly and so deeply that it was like an electric shock to realize that he had been almost certainly correct; that there was an explanation for the sort of man he had grown up to be and for the feelings he had grown up to feel. To have a definition is to have meaning, but he did not feel like this had any meaning. (If it did, surely it was the one expressed by some unknown author -- that he was damned.) 

Eddie sat down on the Kissing Bridge and he faced away from the graffiti so that he didn’t have to see it. He curled in tight against himself, like a child, and then he cried. He let himself cry for a long time; until he was able to uncurl and start thinking about the things that Eddie Kaspbrak Did Not Think About. It felt like knives in his stomach, but he had always been braver and stronger than his mother thought him to be, so he opened his eyes and he looked at himself.

II.

A long way away from Derry, Maine, Patty Uris was dreaming. Her sleep was restless and she was alone in the too-big bed that she was sleeping in, with no one to comfort her. 

In her dream she was not alone. She was standing by herself, but there were people all around her. The landscape was a mass of reds and oranges and yellows, the colors of every picture of a desert landscape she’d ever seen. She lifted her water-jug out of the well. 

Behind her, a voice came. “Could you spare some water for me?” it said. She spun around, but she saw no one. 

“Just a sip. The desert is so dry, and I am tired from traveling many miles for my master.” She turned again and finally saw him; a short, unobtrusive man, watching her with keen eyes.

“Of course,” she said. Her voice sounded far away. She let him drink from her cup. When she took it back, the man was still watching her, head tilted slightly to the side -- he was waiting. There was something else she was supposed to say, and once she said it, she would know her soulmate.

A rush of heat overtook her body. The sand was burning her feet. She had to say something. She was looking at the camels standing behind the man. The camels, like the desert, were something she had only seen in pictures. 

The sleeping form of Patricia Uris made a small hurt noise and rolled over. If you had been watching her, the moonlight that crept in through the shades would’ve let you see that her face was wet with tears. 

In the dream, Patty shut her eyes but she could still see the desert. She opened them, and turned towards the man. There was perhaps some small part of her that wanted to overturn the jug and spill the water over the hot ground; to watch it seep into the sand; to forget all of this and go on. But that part was not the part that spoke.

“Your camels must be tired from the journey, too,” she said. “Let me give them water.”

The servant smiled at her, wide and genuine with dancing, pleased eyes. “Oh, thank you!” he said. “Thank you!” 

Her hand on the water jug shook. She closed her eyes again, and when she opened them she found herself back in her own bed where she belonged. She barely remembered that she had been dreaming, and did not question the tears on her cheeks, as they had become commonplace.

  
  
  


When she got to the hospital for visiting hours, her mother was already there. That was a blessing, surely. 

“Momma,” she said, although she hadn’t called her mother something so childish in years and years, “I don’t know what to do.” Her voice was getting all caught-up in her throat, trapped there like a caged animal. _ He almost died! _ Her mind said against the walls of its trap. _ Please help me! _Was she talking to God or to her mother? To her mother. God hadn’t listened, before. 

“Listen to me, Patricia,” Ruth Blum told her daughter, sternly. Like Patty did not call her ‘momma’, her mother in turn never called her Patricia. Things changed and warped and became different in this crisis that she never thought would happen to her.

Ruth’s hand found her face. “I _ said_, listen,” she snapped, pulling at Patty to direct her gaze. Patty didn’t think that looking was the same as listening, but she knew what would make her mother happy and she desperately needed to make _ someone _ happy. She met her mother’s eyes. Ruth Blum looked more like a tired old woman now than Patty had ever before thought that she had.

“You are not going to lose that boy,” her mother said. Patty had slipped into her role as her mother’s child, and therefore Stanley was likewise a boy again. “There’s still breath in his lungs. For now, that’s enough.”

_ But how long can that be enough for? _ Patty thought. She started to cry, and her mother sighed. 

“Oh, my darling. Come here.” Her mother held her until the shoulder of her blouse was wet with Patty’s tears. Patty was thinking, _ I chose him! And even now! I still want him, so -- so, please -- _but even in the comfort of her own mind, she wasn’t sure how that thought ended.

III. 

After Beverly Marsh ran away from the specter of her father, she went back to her room in the Derry Town House and she thought she might vomit again, like she had at the _ Jade_, but maybe there was nothing but bile left in her stomach because when she knelt on the floor of her rented bathroom, nothing came up her throat. 

She washed her hands in the dingy sink and she kept waiting for the blood to climb up through the drains, but that did not happen either. She thought of Tom’s blood and her own bruises and a clown holding a balloon. 

She left the bathroom and she sat down on her bed. She couldn’t run away from Derry because there was nowhere for her to run _ to _ \-- she laughed, out loud, when she realized that she was now homeless. If she visited a friend, that friend would be in danger from Tom, just like she was in danger now from the thing under Derry. This, too, made her laugh, although it was not funny.

She slid her wedding band off her finger and looked at it, not with distaste or regret, but with a simple and clean _lack_ of emotions. 

“I hated my father,” she said to the ring. “I hate you, Tom.” And then she stood up off the bed and left her room.

*

Ben was buttoning up a new shirt when someone knocked on his door. He jumped, and his fingers turned clumsier than they had in a long time. He felt almost drunk, or maybe hungover -- his head felt heavy. _ Thick with fear, _he thought.

He opened the door without even looking through the peephole, he did not care who or what was on the other side.

It was Beverly. Seeing her snapped him mostly out of his malaise in a heart-beat; his words stumbled over his tongue and he was sure that he looked like an idiot, just staring at her. 

“Hi,” she said. To his shock, he saw that she was slightly blushing -- the tips of her ears had turned a bright red, and her cheeks were flushed. “I’m sorry to impose, but I...I needed to talk to someone. Do you...do you want to come back to my room with me? I don’t want to be alone right now. And there’s something there I want to show you.” 

Some reflexive fear spiked in Ben’s blood. “Something...do we need to call the others? Call Mike?”

She laughed. “No, I...I think most of them are still out in town, anyway. But it’s not that, Ben. Just come back, will you?”

“Okay,” he said, because what else was he ever going to say to her?   
  


Beverly’s room looked much like his own; he thought the wallpaper was slightly different, but all the rooms in the house shared a basic structural similarity that Ben found somewhat reassuring. Beverly closed the door behind them, and for a moment, both of them just stood there, watching the floor rather than each other’s faces, and both presumably waiting for the other to speak.

Anyone who had known the two of them when they were eleven years old could’ve put money on the bet that Beverly would speak first -- nearly thirty years later, and they would’ve won back their cash. 

Beverly looked over at him -- just a brief glance, her gaze flicking away after barely a breath’s time -- and sighed. “I want a damn smoke,” she said, and laughed at herself. “But I know I shouldn’t. At least, not inside. Derry has grown; this is a _ nice establishment _ now.”

For some reason, her reluctance struck Ben as pretty funny, and it cut through some of the impossible tension between them like a knife. He crossed to the window of her room to see if it opened; it did. There was no screen, and he waved his arm out of the window to show her.

“Honestly,” he said, smiling at her. “It’s still Derry. If this is anything like when we were kids, no one will notice a damn thing.” 

“I don’t know,” Beverly said. “I mean, it’s _ not _ like when we were kids.” But she joined him at the window and produced her cigarette pack from her pocket. 

“Is it really so different?” They were slotting back so easily into their old roles, despite -- or even because of -- the terrible presence of the monster under the town. 

Beverly hummed a little around the cigarette perched between her lips. She lit it and took a drag; then she plucked it between two long fingers and looked up at him, smiling.

“I’d say so,” she said. “I mean, if we were kids, you’d be keeling over from the embarrassment of just being in the same room as me.” 

She smiled at him as she said it, a private, genuine smile; she was not being cruel -- but it still swept the air right out of his lungs. His face couldn’t decide if it should blush or not, and compromised by going pale. 

“Ben?” she said, when he didn’t reply. The tip of her cigarette burned yellow-red; he looked at it. “I’m sorry...I was just teasing.”

“I know,” he said. For a long moment, that was _ all _ he could say. Then, “Honestly, you’re right.” He smiled at her -- she could surely tell that it was a forced smile, but it was the best he could do. 

“It’s just,” Ben said, and then he paused. If he told her this, it would tell her everything. “I went to the library,” he said, probably seemingly out of nowhere. “On my walking-tour of Derry, I mean.”

Beverly nodded at him to continue. His reassurances had at least worked well enough that her cigarette was once again tucked between her teeth. Ben watch the tip flare, and breathed in-and-out. 

“After that, I came back here,” Ben said. “And I guess I was, well, thinking of you.”

“Flattering,” she said, one eyebrow cocked, blowing smoke out in a steady stream through the open window. The evening air was cool, approaching cold. 

He smiled at that, but couldn’t stop his story for fear of derailing it entirely. 

“And I -- saw something,” he said. “I mean...I saw Pennywise. But It disguised itself as you.” 

That made Beverly stop and turn to meet his eyes. “What?” Her voice was high, flute-like -- scared. 

“He pretended to be you and then you were cruel to me. I mean, I realized it wasn’t you, but…” Ben was no longer sure why he was telling her this; it simply felt like something she should know, something he was obligated to share. “It _ knows _ us...and It tried to use you against me.”

Beverly’s mouth parted open ever-so-slightly. “I don’t want to be a weapon,” she said, frowning. “I… that doesn’t seem right. We shouldn’t hurt each other.”

“You’re not hurting me,” Ben said, trying to express the earnestness of it in his voice. “It’s not...it’s my fault. When we were kids…”

“Don’t feel bad for a crush,” she said, cutting him off. “I mean, please. For me there was…” she trailed off. For her there was Bill, of course. She looked back up at him. 

“I’m sure you knew how I felt about Bill,” she said. She was trusting him not to be offended or hurt by it, and he was glad to show her that he was neither. 

“I think we all knew,” he said, smiling at her. 

“I’d hope so,” she said, dryly. “And I mean, half of you guys worshiped the ground he walked on, so I wasn’t even really alone.” 

Ben laughed. “That’s just Bill. He has a presence...back at the _ Jade _ we were all sort of waiting for him to walk in the room, you know?” 

Beverly made an ‘eh’ motion with her hand that Bill probably would’ve found rude had he been there to see it. “I guess. But, Ben…” she paused again, her attention returning briefly to her cigarette.

“I knew,” she said softly, once she had exhaled. “That you liked me, I mean. Well. It was obvious, I suppose. But what I never said was that it was kind of...nice.” She peered at him, curiously. “You never pressured me to actually have an interest in you, which I have since learned is...unusual.” Her mouth cocked up a little in a smile, half-hurt and half-amused. 

“I was so young. We were all so young! I liked that you liked me.” She met his eyes; God she was always so bold, it was terrifying -- “I made me feel pretty. Hell, it made me feel powerful. And it was...normal. Gentle. Fuck. I don’t know what I’m saying!” She laughed; there was red high on her cheeks.

“It’s really good to hear that, Beverly,” Ben said. He wasn’t sure how to reassure her. “That’s all I...I didn’t want your attention or anything. I just wanted…” he felt his face heat up. “But I guess I feel weird that I still…” 

The cigarette tip was glowing orange-red again. “Are you attracted to me, Ben?” 

He jumped at that, and his gaze dropped away from her eyes and down towards the rest of her face. She was, in fact, startlingly good-looking; in a way that surely anyone could appreciate -- the slender impressive curve of her cheek to her chin, her pink lips. 

“Yes?” he said.

“Is that a question?”

“No.” 

“I don’t know why I asked that,” she said, “to be honest. I also...uh. You’re a handsome man, Ben.” 

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. 

“I don’t know what I want,” Beverly said. Her voice had softened, she was almost talking just to herself now. “When I started to remember you guys, I wondered…” She shrugged. “I wondered if it’d change anything.” 

Suddenly, she sighed. “Hold this,” she said, and Ben obediently took the stub of her cigarette so that she could cross back to her bed. She slipped something small into one hand and walked back. He realized while watching her that she looked tired and pale underneath the striking beauty. 

She took her cigarette back, and opened her palm to reveal a delicate gold band. “My wedding ring,” she said needlessly, smiling sadly at it. “This is what I wanted to show you. I went to my father’s house, when you were at the library. He hasn’t lived there for quite a while, because he’s dead.” She paused, as if expecting interruption, but Ben stayed silent. 

“And then there was...I don’t know, the same terrifying mess that always comes with It, I guess. A witch...a candy house...but for me what was the most terrifying was the same as it was when I was eleven years old. When I got back here, I took off my ring right away.” 

“Do you remember,” she said, frowning a little and fixing him with another sharp look. She was trying to _ see _ him, Ben realized, see down to the core of him and discover who he was. He shivered with it. “Do you remember...right before everything, I came running down into the Barrens -- you were in the clubhouse, just you and Richie’s radio.” 

“I remember,” Ben said, because suddenly he did. He couldn’t quite recall what came directly after, but he could see Beverly in his mind’s eye, coated in dirt and muck and sweat, eyes wide in fear and panic. He had never before seen her like that. 

“I was running from Bowers and his gang,” she said, still watching him. “But what I didn’t tell you -- because I was far too embarrassed to do so -- was that before I was running from Bowers, I was running from my father. There was something _ wrong _ with him. He had hurt me, but then, he had hurt me a…he had hurt me _ a lot_. But it was like every horrible thing he’d ever done was amplified, blown up on to a huge billboard above our heads...he chased me. I was terrified of him. I _ hated _ him. And I ran like a fucking wildcat.”

Her cigarette was just a tiny thing nestled between her fingertips, now. She bit her lip and then stubbed out the cigarette onto her own left palm, her eyes widening a little in pain as she did so. Ben reached towards her uselessly; she was too quick to be stopped. 

Beverly raised her palm towards him and showed him the small red burn. “But if I hated my father,” she said, “Why did I marry a man just like him?” 

“I --” Ben said.

“You don’t know,” Beverly finished for him. “No one has an answer for me. It’s very inconvenient.” She smiled down at the floorspace between them. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, unsure of what he was apologizing for. (He was sorry, very sorry indeed, that she slammed the burning end of the cigarette into her own palm but wasn’t it the same as that time he’d been belligerent and drunk and torn open a beer bottle with his hands, the bottle top cutting into his flesh and dripping blood down onto the floor?) 

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” she said. “Or, maybe I do. I don’t know anymore. But I do want…” she paused.

“I feel horrible saying this,” she said. “Because of Stan.”

There was a beat of silence between them. She kept looking down at the floor. 

“Say it anyway,” Ben said. “Stan’s with us.” Although he wasn’t sure that he was.

“But he didn’t want to be, though,” Beverly said. She sighed again. This whole conversation had been evidently so difficult for her, but Ben had no words of wisdom to soothe or help.

“It’s just that,” she said. “To everyone else -- this is returning home to the worst thing that ever happened to them. And of course...it’s that for me, too. But I didn’t grow up to lead a happy life, Ben. I mean, I’ve been pretending too. Pretty Mrs. Rogan with her wedding ring and her fancy blouses. But maybe I’m still Ms. Marsh with her cheap, self-embroidered shirts and I’m tired of Tom and I’m tired of being hurt. This is my second chance at happiness and I feel fucking terrible because only six of us are here.” 

She said it so forcefully that he had to look at her. He would’ve perhaps expected tears in her eyes, but they were dry. 

“You deserve to be happy,” Ben said, voice sure with his certain belief that this was true. “Beverly --” 

“I hear you,” she said. “But I can’t quite believe it. Isn’t that terrible?” Ben nodded, because it was.

Beverly sighed once again, this time heavily. “I don’t mean to cage you here,” she said. “Let’s sit down.” She perched herself on the bed and Ben stood stolid as a statue until she patted aggressively at the blanket beside her, and then he made his body (_his adult body his thin body so it was okay but also maybe it wasn’t -- that was a fucked-up train of thought and he knew that he really did and yet -- _) sit down next to her.

“Tell me what It showed you,” Beverly said. “Please. I want to know.” So he did; he shared the horror of being tricked and touched and terrified. 

IV.

Ben and Beverly walked into the Derry Public Library together. Mike had not been particularly expecting that to happen, but he liked it; it made him smile. He ushered them back into the little staff lounge, and pulled each of them into a brief, tight hug. That made Beverly laugh a little, and when she pulled back, she pecked him on the cheek. 

“We brought drinks,” she said, raising the bag in her hand. “Where’s everyone?”

“They’re coming,” Mike said; her smile was contagious and he grinned back at her. “You seem...in a lighter mood than I would’ve expected,” he said, light enough that she could brush off the question if it was too much. 

“Well,” Beverly said, breezily, “I suppose we both saw some terrible things, but talking about it helps, doesn’t it?” She looked over at Ben, who was watching her with a confused smile that matched how Mike was feeling.

“Oh, Hell,” Beverly said, setting her bags on the table and lifting a bottle of vodka from one. “Maybe I’ve just finally cracked, Mike, but -- if this is the calm before the storm, I’m gonna enjoy it while I can.”

“Very wise, Bev,” Mike said, laughing. He took the whiskey that Ben was proffering and set it beside the vodka. “I wouldn’t be shocked it everyone has the same idea. We’ll set up a little bar and have ourselves a party.”

“Eat, drink, and let’s be merry, for tomorrow we may die?” 

They all spun around; Richie Tozier was ducking into the room with a grin on his face and a six pack in his hand. 

“A little more morbid than I would’ve put it, Rich,” Mike said, but he took the beer from Richie and pulled him into a one-armed hug, all the same. 

“Aw, Mikey, just trying to keep the tone neutral,” Richie laughed. “Anyway, make room on that table, because Big Bill is behind me with Eddie, and I think they both had the same idea. Bunch of alcoholics we turned out to be, eh?” 

“It’s a tuh-toast,” sure enough, Bill emerged behind him, Eddie at his side. “To our suh-success.” 

“Bit more than a toast, I’d say,” Richie said. “But hey, no complaints from me. Hiya, Eds -- uh, Eddie.” 

If Eddie noticed his slip, he didn’t acknowledge it, he just gave a soft “Hello,” with a frown. 

Richie peered at him, a concerned crinkle between his eyebrows, and Mike couldn’t pretend he didn’t share his concern. Maybe Eddie had been a quiet child, but he had his sticking points, and an Eddie that didn’t fight back in their childish arguments was concerning, particularly so given how Eddie had snapped at Richie at the _ Jade_. Still -- Mike felt fundamentally lost talking to all of his friends’ adult selves -- he hadn’t learned them yet, hadn’t earned their trust. He could watch Eddie, but that was all.

“Let’s all pour ourselves a drink and getting started on that toast, huh?” He said, keeping his voice as easy as he could manage. “What’d you bring, Eddie?” 

Eddie’s eyes flicked away from wherever they’d been wandering and lighted onto Mike’s. “Gin,” he said, “And, uh, prune juice.” 

There was a moment of surprised silence, and then Beverly said, “Christ, really?” and Richie burst into laughter beside her. 

“I’ll have you _ know_,” Eddie said, “that gin and prune juice is actually quite healthy.” And at that, Eddie broke and was smiling, laughing, too. It was gorgeous to see, like the sun appearing from behind stubborn clouds. 

“Oh, Eddie,” Beverly said, and Mike thought she spoke for all of them when she said, “I do love you.” 

And they did indeed. Richie was leaning physically half-across the table, though he seemed unaware of it; his smile matched with Eddie’s and his eyes followed the other man everywhere. They’d always been close; Mike smiled to see that it hadn’t changed much, even after Richie annoyed Eddie earlier in the day. There was still some level of tentativeness to their relationship, but surely that was true of all of them. They had _ all _ both changed and not-changed -- they were themselves, but they were no longer eleven years old. That the love they once had still remained was a miracle.  
  


The Losers Club did, in fact, have a toast. They tried to make Bill do it, but he just smiled and said, “N-not tonight, uh-unless y-you want it to t-take a s-solid thuh-thirty m-minutes or s-so.” 

“Have mercy on the poor man,” Richie grinned from beside him. “You do it, Mikey!” 

Mike laughed. “Hey now, _ you’re _ the man on the radio.” 

Richie waved a dismissive hand. “Eh, I just do Voices. I’m not so good at being myself.” 

“Maybe you should work on that,” Beverly said from beside him. She draped herself onto his arm, but as had always been the case with Richie-and-Bev, there was a playfulness and childishness to the flirtation that marked it as platonic. Mike snuck a glance at Ben, and he was watching them both with a small fond smile. 

“Aw, Bevvie,” Richie crooned, leaning in as if for a kiss -- Beverly puckered up, but they both pulled away at the last second, laughing. “What if you don’t_ like _ the real me?” 

“Unhealthy way of thinking,” Beverly said sternly. “See a therapist, Mr. Tozier.” 

“Very cold, Ms. Marsh!” No one seemed much surprised when Beverly did not correct him. In fact, she instead leaned over and planted a kiss on Richie’s cheek.

“Well then,” Richie said, and Mike was amused to note that he was blushing a little. “I guess you’re forgiven.”

Mike felt warm down to his core. By God he’d missed this! He had friends in Derry, of course he did, but not -- not quite like this. Nothing could even be quite like this.

Clearing his throat, he raised his glass in the air. The first one to spot him was Eddie, who raised his glass, too, and offered a tiny sweet grin on his tired face. Mike found himself deeply charmed, and nodded at him, smiling back. “Hey,” he said. “To the Losers, huh? To friendship and to love and to surviving this Goddamn town.”

“By the skin of our fucking teeth!” Richie cheered, clinking his beer against Mike’s glass. 

“I wish we could all be here,” Ben said, at the same time as Beverly said, “If only Stan was with us.” 

“I thuh-think w-we ah-all w-want that,” Bill said. Beverly smiled at Ben, and took his hand. Mike looked at their fingers curled tight around each other and thought, _ I don’t want anything to ever break that grip. Not between any of us. _

Across the table, Eddie said quietly, “To Stan.” 

“To Stan the Man,” Richie said, leaning slightly across the table to gently touch bottle to glass with Eddie. “He was kind of always the best of us, so I hope he’s sending us strength.” 

“To the Losers,” Mike said. “To us.” And at that, they all drank, long and deep.   
  


Drinks were poured and cheeks were reddened and conversation was perhaps lighter than it should be -- in short, Mike could not think of a better way to spend The Night Before. They had talked about murders and missing children for as long as any unprepared civilian could; they were in the end no better or worse than anyone else. There was perhaps a desperation to their joy, but it was joy all the same. 

“I’m gonna go grab myself another beer,” Mike said, standing. “I have a stash in the staff fridge. Anyone want one?”

“My six-pack has magically disappeared, thanks to the help of my beloved friends,” Richie said. “So yeah, I’ll have one.”

“M-me t-too, Muh-Mikey,” Bill said, smiling softly at him. Mike nodded shortly at the two of them and made his way back, humming slightly as he went. 

It was not cold in the back room, but he shivered upon entering it. 

In retrospect, he should’ve known that ‘joy’ was too pleasant a note for their evening to end on.   
  


The balloons came first. An impossible number of them, billowing out at him in blue and orange. The blue were emblazoned with MISSING SOMEONE? and the orange read TURN BACK NOW. The bold lettering mocked him.

It took Mike a minute to find his voice over the ferocious patter of his heart.

“Guys,” he said when he was finally able to, “I think you should come back here.” He did not shout it, because he did not need to.

“W-wuh-what i-is --” Bill started, but he gave up on the attempted question as soon as he had entered the room. Mike watched his face go pale, and wondered if he himself looked that scared. He suspected that he did. 

“Jesus Christ,” Richie said, right behind Bill. 

“He’s here,” Beverly said, and Mike thought Ben was speaking for all of them when he said, “In the library?_ Now? _ ” like that was an absurd impossible thing. He felt a surge of terrified anger; this was _ his _ space, dammit! 

Quietly, from the very back of the group, Eddie said, “The fridge is bleeding.” 

They all turned to stare at it, and it was. 

“No,” Beverly said, “_No no no _\--” 

Someone had to open it, but Mike was frozen still as a statue. For a long moment they all were, and then Mike heard Bill say _ Fuck _ softly under his breath, and it was Bill who strode across the floor and yanked the door of the staff refrigerator open.

In the fridge was Stanley Uris’ head. No one screamed, but Mike heard a desperate hitching breath behind him that could’ve been Eddie but also could’ve been any of them.

And then it got worse, because Stan’s limbs were all in there with him and they unfolded around him like a parlor trick, except that it was flesh and blood and it was frankly horrible; Stan’s arms and legs pinwheeled around him until the figure of an adult Stanley Uris was standing before them, as lively as anything. 

He was true-to-life and perhaps that made it worse. Stan had not grown to be tall -- he was 5’7” on the outside -- but he was settled; adult. He was a youthful man with a pretty, expressive face -- specked still with acne scars along his jaw -- and a smile that was frankly contagious, or that would’ve been, in better circumstances. He approached them; his walk was sure, his stride broad and confident. He raised his spectacles up to rest in his hair, and smiled at them. 

“Hello, all!” he said. Mike was the only one to have heard his adult voice, of course, but he didn’t need to tell the Losers that the voice they were hearing was as real as everything else. Everyone was watching Stan with a quiet, expectant horror.

“I see you started without me. That’s sort of rude, isn’t it?” He frowned, exaggeratedly. “Couldn’t you have waited? I was almost here -- I was almost dead! I just had to wait for a nurse to come into my room with a tool I could borrow...just had to finish the job.” 

The figure that was not Stanley Uris grinned again, and held up his arms. His shirt sleeves had been rolled up to the elbow, letting them all see the horrible cuts running up and down both of his forearms. One was still bleeding, and Mike watched with a hazy, numb feeling as a drop of sticky blood fell to the floor, staining the carpet where it landed.

“_No_,” he heard Richie say behind him, but it was really more of a moan than a statement. “_No _ \-- he’s not -- he is not dead he’s in _ Atlanta _ \--” he took a staggering step forward, towards Stan; beside him, Beverly gasped and grabbed at his arm to stop him. 

“It’s not real,” Mike said. His voice sounded pretty calm, he thought. He was not calm. “It’s just another trick, Rich, you know he’s full of them.” If Stan Uris was really dead, there was no way in Hell Mike was gonna be able to get Richie down into the sewers and then where would they be? So he could not be dead. It had to be a lie. 

“Oh, I’m real!” the thing that was not Stan said, with a terrible grin. “You’re a coward, Rich, so you don’t want to see me, but -- I’m real!” 

Richie apparently had no wise-cracks for that -- all of them watched him stumble backwards blindly and Mike felt panic start to coil in his chest. _ Oh no, oh fuck, how do we pick ourselves up from here? _

“You’re a hopeless romantic so you’re probably thinking of my wife, Rich, but that’s the saddest part of all -- I’m a suicide so she won’t even be able to mourn me properly! Whattaya think of that, Rich? Will you be able to mourn _ your _ soulmate’s death?” 

Mike was looking at Richie so he saw how bad his hands were shaking. This scene was making it obvious what all of them had already known -- that Richie was just a man with weaknesses like any other. In his mind, Mike begged him to be strong, but how could ask for more than what was possible? 

“And you, Eddie -- speaking of romance, how’s the wife? How’s your sex life -- that’s part of marriage, right? That’s part of love? For you, we all know it is -- but do you love her? Me and Patty had a great relationship, you know.” The thing that was not Stan smiled, and tucked a long curl of dark hair behind his ear. “We touched each other and were touched in turn. Who was the last person to touch you like that, Eddie? Are they sick, too?” 

“Or maybe _she _ makes you sick. Bill makes his wife sick, doesn’t he, Billy-boy?” Stan was leaning towards Bill, but Bill did not appear to be threatened, he stood his ground, even with Eddie’s horrified face beside him. “You love her, but you don’t know _ how _ to love her -- that makes sense, because you never learned how to love. Juh-juh-Georgie _ died _ and he was the only one you ever truly loved! How about that, Big Bill! How about _ that _?” Stan threw back his head and laughed; it was horrible to see.

“It all comes down to that, doesn’t it, Losers? Love, love, and love, and soulmates -- you all believe in those, don’t you? Whether you like it or not? Your soulmate dies and you want to dress in rags. I know how it is; I understand. If Patty ever died, I’d kill myself! Ha-ha! Isn’t that _ funny _?”

He turned towards each of the others in rapid succession. “Ben, you’ll never be loved, not how you want -- you know that, which is why you never bother trying. Is hard living such a lonely life? It must be. This is the most fun you’ve had in years!”

Mike watched as Ben, who’d been standing pressed up close to Beverly and Richie, seemed to drift away from the group -- he wanted to stop him, stop all of them from separating, but it seemed he still could not make himself move. 

“Beverly, you’ll always be loved -- but it won’t be how you wanted it. Unless you _ like _ getting hurt? It certainly seems to happen often enough! Your dear old dad would really like your taste in men, right? Whattaya say, Beverly? Was daddy your soulmate, after all?” Mike didn’t even have to look at Beverly to know her reaction; beside him, she was shaking.

And then Stan swung his face -- that lovely familiar face, twisted and _ wrong _ \-- towards him. “Pathetic! But not so pathetic as you, Mikey -- you never even left Derry to see what greener pastures held! Did you enjoy playing the gentle public servant while all your friends grew up and got rich?” 

Stanley took a staggering step towards them, one that even their terrified minds could not ignore; the Losers Club as a whole backed up suddenly and sharply. 

“I’ll tell you a secret, Mikey,” Stan said. “‘Michael -- meaning: _ Who is like God? _ ’ (The answer being, _ No one, you’re all alone -- _) I’ll tell you a special secret. There’s no one waiting for you; no soulmate at the end of the rainbow. You fight me, and you die alone. That’s that. End of the fucking story, and it’s as unpleasant as one of Bill’s books!” 

For a moment -- a long moment, a far-too-long moment, Mike was silent. Then, “No, it isn’t,” he said.

Stanley smiled at him, and then the smile split the flesh of his face and kept going, blood dripping over the delicate chin, the scars on his jaw, staining the starched collar of his neat shirt. Beside him, Mike heard Beverly mutter _ Fuck! _ underneath her breath, and that seemed to be the best any of them could manage. 

“YES IT IS!” It screamed out of Stan Uris’ throat. “YES IT IS! DON’T LIE TO YOURSELF, MIKEY! DON’T LIE TO YOUR FRIENDS!” 

Around him, the balloons still floating in the air began to _pop!_, each one as loud as a gunshot, until there was only a single red one left, emblazoned with the slogan, I ♥ DERRY, which the monster was holding in its hand. “I’ll leave this one here with you, Losers,” he said, smiling -- a normal smile this time, but made horrifying by the still-split flesh and cascade of blood down his front. “As a reminder of where you’ll die!” And with that, Stan was gone.

The balloon floated up to the ceiling; they all watched it go, wordlessly. They all stood there, waiting for someone to move or to say something, but it was not words that broke their silence, but a sharp whistling breath.

“Oh, Eddie --” that was Beverly, and of course she was right, Mike turned to see Eddie with one hand tight on his collar, as he gasped and wheezed for breath. They had seen that he still had an aspirator, of course, but it was another thing entirely to see him still in such a desperate need for it. All of them moved towards Eddie, even Richie who looked so shaken that he barely seemed to be breathing, himself.

“Get him some water!” That was Ben, handy, helpful Ben, and he was already moving to do so, but Eddie managed to loosen the tight-clenched hand, and waved it at him. 

“No,” gasped Eddie, “No, I’m alright.” He produced the same aspirator they’d seen at the _ Jade _ and took a breath from it, and they all watched in nervous silence until he settled, half-waiting for a joke from Richie that they knew wouldn’t come. (In fact, if anyone had been looking Richie’s way at that exact moment, they would’ve seen him trying to catch his breath with a wild terror in his eyes. But Mike was focused on Eddie, as were they all.) 

“It’s just,” Eddie said, when he could finally manage it, and his timid eyes were darting around beneath his spectacles. “How are we -- how are we supposed to beat _ that _ \-- if just seeing Stanley is enough -- enough to...make us all fall apart --” he glanced at Richie, who was standing shakily apart from them, clearly unnerved, and Mike privately agreed: it was always scary when the Trashmouth was finally silenced. 

Then, no small measure of anger flashed in Eddie’s eyes. “What the Hell do we _ do?_ Huh?” his eyes wandered the room again, searching; they found Bill and stayed there. Mike realized that most of them were looking at Bill; even Richie, who had his glasses perched on top of his head and was rubbing at his eyes, was turned towards him. 

_ Come on, Big Bill_, Mike thought. _ Prove to me that you can still do it, that you’re still the man I remember -- God I hope you are -- you opened the fridge now tell us how to fucking fight it -- _

Bill looked at them. It was a mild look; he did not seem to be at all surprised that all eyes were on him. 

“I-it _ duh-does _ know us,” he said, in his slow adult voice. “_I-it _ does, I muh-mean, the cuh-clown. But i-it’s s-scared of uh-us, right?”

“What’s it got to be scared _ of _?” Eddie said. He looked like he was desperate to believe what Bill was saying. 

“The Lucky Seven,” Mike said, quietly, and Bill nodded at him. 

“E-exactly. We’re a-all...we’re _ all _ still ah-alive...including St-stuh --” it seemed for a long and terrifying moment that he was not going to be able to get through the name, but Bill merely paused, and frowned. “_Stanley _,” he said after a moment, with a quiet emphasis. “Stuh-Stanley too. He’s oh-oh...he’s alright. We’ll cuh-call his w-wife and see huh-how he’s doing. I-I h-have to c-call my wuh-wife too s-so…”

“Yeah,” Mike said, finally forcing himself to speak around the dryness in his throat. “I’ve already talked with Patty not that long ago -- she has my number, so she would call if anything happened.” Bill was nodding at him, reassuringly. 

“Let’s call it a night, huh?” Mike said, looking at all their pale faces and knowing he almost certainly didn’t look any better. “We should all try and get some rest, anyway. I have some stuff I wanna finish up here, but then I’ll had home and make that call.” 

“I-I’d luh-like to b-be th-there for the c-call,” Bill said, quietly. “I-if thuh-that’s a-alright?”

“Of course,” Mike said, and suddenly felt deeply grateful that he wouldn’t have to make another terrible phone call alone. “Of course, Big Bill.” He looked across at Bill for a moment, and then finally he laughed a little, digging around in his pocket for something. He produced a key on a small ring, shiny and unused. 

“A spare key to my place,” he said quietly. “Here.” He tossed it lightly to Bill, who caught it easily. 

“Buh-bet y-you were wuh-wuh-wond-d --”

“Wondering why I got it made? Yeah, I was. Look, you can head to my place, now, alright? I’ll meet up with you real soon. And take a cab instead of walking, Bill, okay? I don’t think any of us should be alone on the streets of Derry right now.” 

“Yeah,” Rich said from where he was still standing off to the side, faced away from all of them. “There’s someone out there killing _ kids_. Who knows what might happen?” At that, he slung his sport-coat over one shoulder and began walking briskly towards the door. 

“Richie!” Beverly jogged after him, her hair bouncing over her shoulders. “C’mon, we’ll all grab a cab together…”

“No thanks,” Richie said, not turning around. “We all made it big, remember? I can pay my own way.” 

“It’s not safe --” that one was Ben, who was trailing after Beverly.

“Nothing’s fucking _ safe _ in this town! Adrian Mellon wasn’t a kid _ or _ alone when he got murdered! So get off my goddamn back.” 

“Oh, get over yourself, Rich.” Mike found himself turning, blinkingly, towards Eddie’s unexpected words. Eddie was still clutching his aspirator in one hand -- so tightly that his knuckles were white around it -- but his drawn, bloodless face was pinched tight in plain annoyance; there was nothing delicate about the sharpness of the look he was giving Richie; Sonia Kaspbrak would not have approved.

“_Excuse me?_” Richie looked spitting mad.

“You think you can pretend you’re not scared if you storm off now? We all fucking saw you, Rich We _ all _ got scared by Stan!” Eddie came forward so that he was standing abreast with Beverly and Ben, but if Mike had to guess he thought that Richie was looking at Eddie and only Eddie. 

Richie’s mouth worked noiselessly for a moment. “What do you people want from me? Do I have to bear my fucking heart? Is that what you want, Eds? Christ!” Richie grabbed at his own hair as he said it, and Mike watched him yank at it, hard, hard enough surely to hurt. He winced in sympathy. The scene was getting away from him, and he was suddenly terrified that it was all going to fall apart, right there and then.

“Richie,” Beverly said. “_Please _ just take the cab with us.” 

“Fine,” Richie said, “fine!” Mike thought maybe they all noticed it at the same time -- that at some point in the conversation, Richie had started crying. Mike looked around at the others; Beverly had tears in her eyes, too. 

“I think we’ll all just a little right on edge right now,” Mike said, and waited for them all to look at him. “You four go get some sleep. Bill and I will try and contact Stan, and in the morning, we’ll tackle what comes next.”

Eddie nodded sharply at his words, the determined set of his eyebrows not relenting. Richie looked at Eddie, and then at Beverly and Ben (Ben was cupping her elbow with one hand, Mike couldn’t help but notice), and then finally at himself and Bill.

“Alright,” Richie said. “Goodnight, Mike, Bill. Say ‘Hi’ to Mrs. Uris for me.” 

“For all of us,” Beverly said. She smiled at Mike, a tired smile but a genuine one, despite the fact that he could still see that her eyes were wet.

“I-I wuh-will,” Bill said, and it was like something relaxed, almost imperceptibly, with Bill’s words; they all moved at once to the library’s exit, and there was a chorus of soft good-nights as the went their ways. 

“See you at home, Bill,” Mike said; Bill was the last of them to leave, as he was going separately. Bill spun his recently granted key chain around one finger, and smiled. 

“Duh-don’t s-stay up too lu-late, wuh-working,” Bill said, his voice soft and reassuring even through the still-worsening stutter.

“I won’t,” Mike said. He was suddenly glad, very glad, not only that Bill had come when he called -- he had never really doubted that he would -- but that he had come as the man who Mike had hoped he would be, brave and stalwart, still. 

“Good-night,” he said to Bill, and the two men nodded quietly at each other in acknowledgement, and then Bill slipped out the door and into the cool evening air.

Mike turned back his papers, a shiver still dancing its way up and down his spine. They had weathered another appearance by It, but they all knew that it was very nearly time for the real thing; the final desperate fight. He just had to hope that they could be somewhere close to ready for it, when it came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The information that Eddie thinks about 'Patient Zero' and HIV transmission is very incorrect -- it is, to my knowledge, what the prevailing narrative would've been at the time, which is why it's included, but for the record, I want to be clear that that is a false narrative that developed in part due to societal homophobia. You can read a brief overview [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ga%C3%ABtan_Dugas) on Dugas' wikipedia page.


	7. Rising Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Patty have a talk. As the crisis builds, so do relationships within the Losers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took much longer to post than I intended! I actually ended up splitting the original draft in two, so the next chapter is mostly already written and should take way less turn-around time. TBH I thought this whole fic would be a lot shorter so like, I am just trying my best at this point, lol. 

_ // Atlanta, Georgia _

Patty Uris did not like seeing her husband like this.

He was getting better. There was that, at least. Physically, he was no longer in any danger; or -- that’s what the doctors told her. The gauze on his arm still hurt to look at -- and it physically hurt, too, which made her feel horrible and sick. The nurses were good at monitoring his pain, though, even if they gave her awful-pity looks as they did it. 

But now that he was stable physically there were sickening conversations about his _ mental state_, something neither she nor anyone in their combined family seemed ready or able to have.

Had he attempted before? No, he hadn’t. Had he ever mentioned suicide to her? No, he hadn’t. Had he ever hurt himself? She had been crying, silently, by the time they got to that question -- but no, he hadn’t -- at least not since she’d met him. _ We’re soulmates; I would know. _

Even though he was getting better, they didn’t want him to leave, because they thought -- horribly -- they thought he might _ try again. _ It made her feel ill to think about. His parents were coming down to visit, and she did not want to see them and tell them this. Stanley was barely speaking to her (or to anyone --) but she thought he also did not want to see them. 

  
  
  


“Tomorrow, your parents will probably be coming,” she said to her husband in the same steady and factual way she’d been trying to impart all information to him in these past several terrible days. 

“Oh,” Stanley said, in that same terrible-emotionless way he’d answered everything she’d told him, Since. She knew that he did not want to see them, but even that was barely expressed.

“I’m going to get you dinner,” she said, because she still loved him, despite everything. They would feed him, regardless -- but only she could pick out something he might like. 

  
  
  


Hospital food was not very good. Patty would not have recommended it as the ideal avenue to spoil your husband. She made do with what she could, and she chose the most appetizing things she could find. She brought his food to him on a tray, and set the tray in his lap. 

“Thank you,” Stanley said, and then he looked at the tray for a long moment. He just kept looking at it and then, suddenly, he took a gasping breath, and as she watched, he started to cry.

She recoiled instantly; he had not yet cried at all, since he had first hurt himself.

“Stanley!” She said. “Stanley? Are you in pain?” 

“No,” he said, “God no, I’m not -- Patty you would know, I’ve done this to you -- _ fuck! _ ” He didn’t use language like that, at least not around her -- she was going to start crying too, any second now, _ No please no don’t do this_, whatever this is --

Stan scrubbed his hand down his face. But even as he wiped at his tears, more trickled down his face; it was as if, now that he had started crying, he could not stop. How many tears did he have, inside? How much was there all locked away? 

“Stanley,” she said again, helplessly. She had no idea what to do; it was all so terrifying and unfamiliar (except for how sometimes -- _ she had seen _ \-- but she had ignored those things too -- _ oh no oh no please)_, and it was uncomfortable, because she was his wife but she didn’t know how to fix this.

“I feel like I have to tell you,” Stan said, but then halfway through he cut himself off. “No...I _ want _ to tell you. I can’t justify hurting you, not ever, but I want...there’s something about me that I want to make you understand…”

_ There is no reasoning that could ever make me understand this, _ Patty thought, and some hurt-scared thing inside added _ Nothing could ever make me forgive you for this _ \-- and both said _ Oh but Stanley I do love you and I don’t want to know something so terrible_. 

“You don’t have to,” was all she said aloud.

“I do,” Stanley said. “Patty, I do. I have to tell you. Please, just let me tell you this.” 

After a long moment -- too long -- she nodded, and Stan kept talking. She looked not as his miserable face but at everything else; at his hair that was unwashed and tangled; at the folds of the blankets over his legs; at the tray of carefully-selected foods.

“I don’t know if I can explain it to you,” Stanley was saying. “I can barely explain it to myself. But I want -- I think maybe that you need to know. I think maybe I should’ve told you a long time ago, because...because I don’t know. But I want to explain it to you as well as I can.” She looked at his face again; he smiled suddenly, although it was a deeply sad smile. “I don’t think that will be very well at all,” he admitted. “But I have to try.”

“Alright,” she said. She sat back. She had to give him this; suddenly it felt incredibly important to do so. “I’ll listen.” 

“Thank you,” her husband said. He took a long moment to compose himself, to find words. She had rarely seen him so hesitant. 

“In 1958 -- well, I guess it started in 1957 -- there was a spate of missing and murdered children in Derry, Maine. That is, of course, the town where I was born.”

Never in her life had Patrica Blum Uris heard anything like that about her husband’s life -- she had never even suspected it. She did not know what to say, but she gasped, reflexively. 

Stanley’s eyes were on her. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It was quite bad,” he said. “Quite difficult. There was a curfew, and all that...but it didn’t save those kids. The ones that were missing never turned up...or they turned up dead.” 

“That’s horrible,” Patty said; she had intended to just listen, but the righteous anger and fear beat that out. “That’s no place to raise a child!” 

“If you asked my parents why they didn’t just up and leave…” Stan shrugged. “I don’t know if they’d have an answer for you. Derry isn’t a normal town, Patty; I can’t explain why it isn’t but it’s...wrong, somehow. It’s like it’s cursed.”

Stan sat up, then, and gently took her hands into his. She hated seeing the gauze on his forearm, but she didn’t pull away. She was desperately tired of wanting to look away from her own husband. So she didn’t look away, and he met her eyes for a brief and glorious second, until his gaze dropped and he started speaking again. 

“I’m making it sound awful, but it wasn’t, not really. I had friends, a really good group of friends -- “ He laughed, lightly, and that was a sound she’d nearly forgotten -- “other losers, mostly. I was...I was the only Jewish kid, but we were all misfits or picked on in our own way, for our own reasons. And that summer...the summer of 1958…it was the seven of us...and…” Stanley was struggling to speak as she watched; the hand of his uninjured arm had her in a vice-grip while the other lay loose and warm in her palm and she thought of the doctor saying _ Nerve damage is not unlikely with an injury of this degree _ and she wanted to hide again, or maybe to scream. She did neither.

“There was something else in Derry, something crueler than the big kids who bullied us. The other thing...person, I guess, we never knew his name...if he even has one…if It has one. The murderer.” His words were unraveling like so much string, and she had to watch him getting upset, aching with how much he wanted her to _ see_. 

She chewed her lip. “Did -- Stanley, are you telling me that -- did someone hurt you, you and you friends -- when you were younger?” 

Stanley blinked up at her and _ God _ there was so much of this scene that she hated; seeing him in the hospital's pale linens instead of the ones she laundered every week. 

“Please tell me,” she said, and held her breath. Oh it was a terrible thing to imagine, her husband when he was only eleven years old and there was someone out there who was so evil that Stanley could barely talk about him -- 

“Yes?” Stanley said, and then seemed almost stunned by his own mouth. “Yes...I...I guess that’s --” he smiled up at her, a brittle and sad smile. “I guess I never really thought about it like that.”

“He hurt you,” she said, and well, maybe she was starting to cry a little bit, but she wasn’t running away so a few tears were probably alright. She was only human, after all. “There was something evil in Derry and it hurt you and you _ forgot _ but your friend called you and you remembered. And it scared you so much that you --” she could not finish that sentence. Stanley was watching her, quiet and still.

“You and your friends...you all were so young...I’m sorry, Stanley.” 

“It’s not _ your _ fault,” Stanley said. “I couldn’t even remember it for all those years…” He lifted his good hand to her cheek and let solemn fingers cup at her face. “You’re the best thing in my life. And I was going to --”

“It’s okay,” Patty said, gently. It wasn’t really, not yet, and maybe not ever, but -- well. “You’re here.” _ Thank you God_. She bit her lip, then tugged at the neck of her blouse -- just enough so that the mark above her left breast was visible. “Still silver.” She had been avoiding looking at her mark every time she changed clothes; but it _ was _ still a proud silver, _ it was it was_.

Stanley stared at her for a long moment, and then he smiled, again; still brittle, but slightly less sad. “There are so many things that we’re going to have to talk about,” he said, and maybe that -- maybe that was true.

(_They did not lie to each other, they never would, but was it really _ honest _ to hide their fears and hurts and bottle them up -- and oh Patty was going to have to tell things too, old stories about old injuries and terrors -- and yes that would be hard but she just wanted to talk with him again and -- _) 

Stanley’s hand crept to the back of her neck, his fingers gentle in her long hair. He pulled her forward and he kissed her; very soft, very sweet; as hesitant as he had been when they had first started dating. She let go of his injured hand so that she could wrap her arms around the back of his head and feels the curls of his hair and maybe one hand drifted to his neck to feel that strong pulse and that was okay. She opened her mouth against her husband’s lips and for the brief span of stolen kisses in a busy hospital, Patty Uris did not want to cry; her mind bloomed pink and orange and yellow; happy, hopeful colors like flowers. 

  
  
  


_ // Derry, Maine _

Beverly did not enter the Derry Townhouse alone; three of her closest friends trailed out after her as she exited the cab. “I’m gonna smoke outside for a minute,” she said; sure there was that ashtray in her room but she was thinking of that open window and she was trying to be courteous to future guests. Courteous indeed, that was Beverly Rogan née Marsh. _ Right. _ Right? 

“Got a spare cig?” That was Richie, of course, begging smokes off her like when they were kids.

“Sure,” she said, easily. “Ben -- can I talk to you? In a minute?”

Ben nodded, and she knew, deep in her bones, that however long she took to stand in the cool Maine air and smoke, Ben would be waiting for her at the door to her room when she was done. That sort of loyalty was a little scary, but she’d take it anyway. 

Ben and Eddie climbed the stairs, and when she handed Richie his cigarette he was looking at her, curiously. She glanced over at him and pretended not to notice that his eyes were still a little red. 

“So,” he said. “You and Ben…”

“Me and Ben what?” she said. She sucked harshly on the end of her cigarette, holding the smoke inside her lungs for longer than was strictly necessary. She let out a slow breath, watching the smoke climb away from her. Richie had barely touched his lit cigarette. 

“He was pretty into you when we were kids,” Richie said, breezily. “Just wondering if that was still a thing, I guess.” 

“It’s not _ that _ thing,” Beverly said, annoyed. “It’s a different thing.”

“Sure, sure.” 

“It is!” 

“I said sure!” 

“You’re a liar and an ass, Richie Tozier.”

“Why, I _ never_, Ms. Marsh…”

Beverly let her cigarette burn for a moment, as she looked up into Richie’s eyes. He was tall; when had he gotten that tall? “Do you call me Ms. because you’ve noticed I took my ring off, or just because you’re rude?”

Richie smiled at her; it was sort of a sad smile. “That depends,” he said. “Why’d you take your ring off?” 

“Because,” Beverly said, and then she took a long and slow drag on her cigarette for the simple reason that she could; no one was going to stop her. “Because I hate my husband,” she said. 

“I knew that, of course,” Richie said. He leaned back against the brick wall of the Townhouse. 

“Sure, Rich,” she said. “And the reason you’re unmarried is just because you’re having so much fun being a bachelor.”

“I’m waiting on my soulmate,” Richie said, easily, and Beverly thought, _ Shouldn’t I know something about that? _ She could almost remember something he had told her once. But when her mind glanced at it, her memory bounced off it, reflected away. 

“Yeah,” she said. “Good luck with that.” 

“I’m sure I’ll need it,” Richie said. He tilted his head back, letting his hair press against the bricks. “But then, won’t we all?”

Her cigarette had burned down to a stub again. There was still a little red irritation on her palm from the last one she’d smoked; this one she stubbed out and disposed of in the provided ashtray. Richie sighed beside her, abandoning his own half-smoked.

“I actually quit a while back,” he said to her. “Shows ya how flimsy it all is, right?” 

“I don’t know, Rich,” she said. She was suddenly very tired, and cupped a hand over her mouth as she yawned. “Extenuating circumstances, and all that.” 

“Sure,” Richie said. “And hey, sorry for freaking out earlier. I was just…” he trailed off. “Well. It’s heavy shit, right?”

“It is.” She turned towards him, and before he could bolt she pulled him into a loose, gentle hug. “I was scared, too. Good-night, Rich.” 

He did not even pretend to protest at the hug. “Sleep well, Bevvie,” he said, quietly, and then they let go of each other and smiled painful smiles. 

Beverly patted at his elbow, and then she climbed the stairs to her room. Ben was waiting for her, just like she knew he would be.  
  


*

Beverly had just missed Eddie, who had passed by Ben on his way up the stairs.

“Waiting for someone?” Eddie said.

“Yes,” Ben said, his voice a near-whisper. “I am.” 

If he was going to be honest, there was no use in teasing him. Eddie smiled at Ben. “You two make a handsome couple,” he said.

Ben blushed like a teenager. “We’re not --” 

Eddie laughed a little. “I know. But...it’s heading there, isn’t it?”

Ben said nothing for a long moment; then, he smiled. It was a very sweet smile, on his handsome grown-up face. “Well,” he said, “I guess.” 

“Good-night, Ben.”

“Good-night, Eddie. You’re sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” Eddie said. “Really. Sleep well.” The two men nodded at each other, and then Eddie turned to climb up the stairs. He didn’t know how to say to Ben that he was fine _ because _ he never outgrew the asthma attacks or the little cases of advil (he had some pills tucked into his pocket right now; he was probably going to take some when he got up to his room) or the digestive aids or the avoidance of running (or the avoidance of looking at men -- huh.) 

He tapped wearily at the hard plastic casing of his aspirator, his mouth set in a hard, dissatisfied line. How was it that good old Haystack had changed so much, was now capable of being around and perhaps even _ with _ Beverly? 

It was as if Ben had managed to retain the best of his childhood self -- that loyal and loving boy -- while growing up enough that now he could actually _ talk _ to Beverly. And meanwhile when Richie had tried to touch Eddie’s cheek Eddie had been about ready to bite his head off. He was terrified of being _ Eds _ again because being Eds was perhaps the source of all his problems...it was Eds that wanted to do impossible things like running fast or --

_ Or looking at other boys? _Was that Eds’ fault, too? 

Oh he _ really _ was getting a headache, now. Eddie pressed at his temple, and continued up the stairs. 

*

No one saw Richie on the stairs of the Derry Townhouse, which he thought was great, because the panic that he’d been trying to stave off with one of Beverly’s cigarettes was really starting to set in. 

No, _ not _ panicking. Richie was _ definitely _ not panicking, he was just -- he told himself, unconvincingly -- he was simply reacting. He knew, of course, that soulmates shared each other’s pains. He’d known that for a real long time; it was part and parcel of every book about soulmates or song about soulmates or movie about soulmates. It was _ essential. _

But still: when Eddie stopped breathing right and harsh pain raced up and down Richie’s throat at the same time; he was horrified and shocked. Nothing could have prepared him for it, he couldn’t _ breathe, _ what the _ fuck _\-- 

Eventually his mind caught up with what was occurring and convinced him to take a breath; it was only that fact that saved him from wheezing just as obviously as Eddie had. 

_ Fuck, Eds_, he had thought, hazily, _ If it’s always this bad I’m sorry for being a prick about it -- _ And then he felt guilty for calling Eddie ‘Eds’ again, even in the confines of his own mind. 

So now he was back in his room and Absolutely Not Panicking because there was nothing to panic over. No one, least of all Eddie, had noticed...but…

_ I should tell Eddie_, he thought. _ Hm. No, wait, actually I shouldn’t. _ Richie gritted his teeth. It had already been such a long goddamn night.   
  


*

The taxi dropped Bill off at Mike’s house and Bill thought, once again, of how much of a burden it must actually have been to live in Derry all these years. He did not so much feel guilty as he was somewhat in awe of Mike. Living alone was hard enough; Bill had barely ever done it in his life and he didn’t much want to; but here was Mike’s place -- built and filled by himself only. 

The living room of his place was dark, with heavy shadows. Bill flicked the light on and then he looked at Mike’s telephone for a long time before he picked up the receiver. He dialed up the number of the cottage he shared with Audra, although he knew she would be in bed. Perhaps it was cowardly, but he hoped she would not pick up the phone, so that he could just leave a message for her. It seemed cleaner that way; less dangerous. If he had come all this way alone, only to still hurt her -- well! He didn’t much like the idea.

He got the answering machine.

He really wished he could fucking talk properly.

“Ah-Audra,” he said, and he had never before stuttered over her name, how terrifying was that? “I-it’s muh-me, Bill...I-I’m at huh-home in Muh-Maine. I-I’ll be back a-as suh-soon as I c-can…I-I huh-hope you’re w-well...” there were all sorts of things he wanted, _ needed _ to say to her, but it was simply unrealistic. 

“I’ll...I’ll b-be as suh-safe as I c-c-can.” That was really the only thing he could promise. 

Bill Denbrough set down the receiver. A wave of exhaustion gripped him, and he went and sat down on Mike’s couch to rest for a moment. Would Patty Uris be home? Would she answer the phone? He had to wait for Mike to get back; he could barely speak and now his thoughts were swimming, too. 

*

When Beverly climbed up the stairs, she looked tired. Ben could understand that; the evening was still young, but it felt like past-midnight to his exhausted bones; the pure adrenaline that had spiked from seeing the imitation of Stan had dropped off and now his muscles ached the way they would after a tough day’s labor.

“God, I’m tired,” Beverly said. “You too, huh?” She grinned up at him as she opened her door; the grin was only a little forced.

He just smiled softly at her, and let her lead him into her room again.

“What did you want to talk about?” He asked. Beverly flicked on the lamp by the bed, and switched off the overhead. The light filling the room was suddenly soft and warm, softening the lines of her face and making her eyes dark and captivating. 

“It’s not so much talking. Well, I guess it is, but -- I was thinking. Do you think it would be strange,” Beverly said, “If we were to spend the night together?” 

Ben’s heart picked up in his chest, but he looked her square in the eye. Perhaps he blushed, but he did not look away. 

“I don’t think that’d be strange at all,” he said. “Is that really what you want?”

“I’m not offering to have sex with you,” Beverly said. “Just to clarify.”

“I didn’t --”

“I know you didn’t.” She smiled. “I know, Ben.” She reached up to his face and placed her hand on his cheek. Her hand was cold, but he did not shiver. “Sometimes you just have to say the unspoken things aloud.” 

“That’s hard,” Ben murmured. When he spoke, the positions of her fingertips shifted ever-so-slightly. “That’s really hard, Beverly.” 

“Yeah,” she said, and then something that he had once dreamed about happened -- she leaned up and she kissed him. (_He had dreamt about this at age eleven and she was taller than him then. But oh how things were different, except for where they weren’t -- _) 

Beverly’s lips were warm unlike her hand and it was just a kiss a simple chaste kiss but _ oh _ her thumb traced under his chin and he could feel the slightest press of her teeth and _ oh oh oh! _

Beverly did not move back until they both had to breathe. She settled back on the balls of her feet and smiled. “How’s that for unspoken?” Even with the dim light he could see that there was a flush high on her cheeks.

“Bev…” he said, helpless to say anything else. “Beverly…” 

“I know,” she said. “Oh God, no I don’t. I don’t know anything. But please stay the night with me. If you want. Only if you want.” 

_ I want so many impossible things. _ That was a thought he had not had in a long time. When had he stopped wanting?

“I’m gonna go change clothes,” he said, slowly, because that was the only logical thing he could think to say. “Brush my teeth. You know. But then I’ll come back to your room.” 

“Okay,” Beverly said, and perhaps now it was her turn to sound hesitant, enough so that he had to ask --

“Are _ you _ sure, Beverly? Do you want…” _ Fill in the blank, there. Whatever this is, whatever we can become, are becoming. _

“It’s hard for me to tell, sometimes,” Beverly said. “But I think I do. I really think I do.” 

And so Ben went up the stairs and into his room, and he washed his face in the bathroom and then he took his bag with his things and he went back down the stairs. 

*

In his room, Eddie tried to shake the heavy discomfit and weariness of the whole day. Derry was cruel, and painful; he was aching with it. He undid his tie, brushed his teeth, and swallowed several of the advil tablets he had on him. In the bathroom mirror, he tried to catalogue himself by what was physically present in the reflection. 

There was his face; slender, pale, and drawn. He had never really been sure whether or not he was handsome; he had been an unappealing child but women had liked him when he was in college. Not so much, any more, except of course for Myra. But perhaps that was because of his eyes, which were dark and tired. He had a steady gaze and did not smile easily. And then there was his forehead, creased by stress. Lips: thin and perpetually slightly chapped, although he applied lip balm regularly. He opened his mouth and looked at his clean white teeth (he was proud of those, at least; although right now such things seemed particularly meaningless). He raised a thumb to the slight widow’s peak of his hairline, and frowned at the patchiness of his hair. It wasn’t a fantastic state of affairs, but he had never been particularly concerned with his looks. And Myra still liked him even though he looked worn and aged and he was smaller than her. 

Eddie conjured her face in his mind; when he had first met her and as she was now. He realized that she _ was _ pretty, with a shock that could only come from a man who married his wife not because of his attraction to her (or lack-thereof) but for -- what? Protection? Protection from his own terrible-traitorous-dangerous true attraction?

_ Jeez-um crow, _ Richie Tozier said in his head. _ That’s a sorry state of affairs, Eds! _

Eddie clenched his hands so tightly around the bathroom counter that he thought the dry skin of his knuckles might split open. It didn’t. That even now, even here in his private fears, Richie was still there and present, was...not _ disturbing, _per se, but -- what was that about?

“Don’t call me Eds,” he said, out loud, and then he felt stupid and absurd for talking to a voice in his head. He had snapped at Rich, earlier, told him not to touch him -- he was thinking about how Richie’s eyes had gone wide, how meekly he’d recoiled -- but the anger he felt was unfair and unfounded and he knew that. It wasn’t Richie’s fault that he was there in Eddie’s head. He always had been, since they were kids.

Eddie exhaled, slowly. He had to stop thinking about it, or he’dgo crazy, and he felt already half-there. He washed his face, and didn’t look at the mirror as he dried it. 

After he exchanged his trousers for pajama bottoms, Eddie sat on his bed. He took off his spectacles and folded them; he slid the rings off his fingers. He looked at his tasteful wedding band and then he looked at the ostentatious ruby ring. He looked at his hands; which now looked like a blank slate. That was good, wasn’t it? He slid the smaller ring back onto his pinky finger. Now the hands belonged to him again. He needed to decide what it was that he wanted, but that was a task that seemed impossible. And, anyway… in his mind Richie said again _ For tomorrow we may die. _ But the morning and the aftermath felt almost equal, as absurd as that was -- a single desperate day and then the rest of his life.

*

After Ben and Beverly lay down next to each other, Beverly turned off the light and they were in darkness. At first Ben was stiff and awkward and he thought perhaps so was Beverly. They were very carefully not touching. Eventually, she laughed, a little muffled by the pillow. 

“We’re ridiculous, Ben,” she whispered. “Tomorrow we all might die under the bones of this terrible town, and we’re lying here like logs.” 

“I don’t mean to make you so uncomfortable. Maybe I should go.”

There was a rustling of blankets as she shifted. “Don’t...not because of this. I’m going to turn towards you,” she said it like she knew he needed the warning, which was...fair. He turned his head, and yes now the whole curve of her body was facing him. 

“Give me your hand,” she said, “the scarred one.” 

Without thinking, he did. She traced the silver lines with one finger, and then she pressed her own palm to his, so that their scars almost lined up. Unlike soul-marks, they weren’t exact copies of each other, but --

“We promised,” Beverly said. “Come back. Stay together. _ Remember_.” 

“I’m glad I remembered you, Beverly.” 

“I’m glad I remembered you, too.” His eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness that when she smiled a little, he could see it. She squeezed at his hand. 

“Do you want me to turn the other way?” 

“No,” Ben said, shifting so that he was curved towards her, too. “It’s okay. This is good.”

And it was. They had the blankets pulled up to their chins, and after they let go of each other’s hands they remained untouching. But they faced each other. Beverly’s breathing started to even out. Eventually, when Ben closed his eyes, he found that sleep was waiting there, instead of fear. 

*

Richie still did not want to do it, but he had decided eventually that he simply had to. He _ had _ to tell Eddie, because -- everything else aside -- Eddie deserved to know, and it was probably wrong of Richie not to tell him when he had first realized it all those desperate years ago. (He could not find it in himself to fault his younger self for that, however -- _ Jesus _ he was just a kid and Derry was _ cruel_.) 

He had tried to sleep and had gotten a few winks, maybe, but his bed felt cold and his room felt too empty and he didn’t remember if he had dreamt of anything, but he had woken up feeling distinctly unsettled.

_ Great, _ he thought, _ so now not only do I have to go fight a clown, I’m not even gonna be able to get some god-damn rest before it. _

And of course, overwhelmingly on his mind was Eddie. Perhaps even more terrifying that facing the clown was the horrible fact that he had what he had always wanted right in front of him and he hadn’t said a goddamn thing. Mike thought they were all so brave, coming back to Derry, but what they were was _ desperate_; adults who grew up but not all the way…but maybe he was just projecting. He gritted his teeth. If this was going to be as life-or-death as they all, deep down, knew it was -- _ then _\--

*

Eddie was asleep. He was still half-dressed, slumped on top of his covers; he had not meant to fall asleep. He was dreaming, and it was not a pleasant dream. 

“Eddie?” Myra said.

“Yes, darling?” he said to his wife.

In that dream-world Myra looked at him and she was kind instead of anxious or controlling.

“Eddie,” she said, “Aren’t you happy? I mean, aren’t you happy with me?” 

He was, wasn’t he? But as he kept watching a cricket crawled out of the wall behind her and stole his attention away. 

“Those damn things are getting everywhere,” he said, exasperated. He was not going to answer her question; a man was not supposed to lie to his wife. “I told you I’ll clean them out, and I will...they’re driving me mad.”

“What?” Myra said. She turned to look where Eddie was looking, then turned back to stare at him, her eyes wide. “What are you talking about?”

“The cricket,” he said, confused. Couldn’t she see it? “It’s right there -- right behind you, Marty. It must’ve crawled up through the basement.” 

“What cricket?” she said again, and Eddie turned to look at her closely now, baffled.

Myra looked at him with her wide eyes. As he watched, her lips parted slightly -- but instead of speaking, he watched in steady horror as a cricket climbed out of her parted lips.

Eddie stumbled back away from her. His shoulder caught the edge of their refrigerator and it threw him further off balance, until without realizing what was happening, he was on the floor in front of his wife. She towered over him; taller than he knew her to be, impossibly tall.

“What?” she said. “Eddie! Are you okay?” She started to bend down, her brows pressed tight together in concern, but he couldn’t stop looking at the cricket that was climbing onto her chin, now. As she spoke it was like more of the insects bubbled up with her words; they were clamoring all over her face, climbing down to her chest and up to her hair. She didn’t seem to notice a thing. Eddie kept trying to speak, but when he opened up his mouth -- oh God he felt it in his own throat -- _ the little skittering legs _ \-- the crickets climbed out of his parted lips.

  
  


Eddie woke to his still-lit room because his hand was curled up under his chin and the ring that he was still wearing was pressed into his flesh. He jerked his hand away, startled. The dream was fading already, but the image stayed of Myra, and himself, and himself-and-Myra; infected and infecting each other. 

“Fuck,” Eddie said aloud, staring at the ceiling. When the phone rang a moment later, he sat up and answered it. 

*

If it was Richie that died under the town he was born in, then Eddie would know they were soulmates only because the mark on the back of his leg would fade. Richie thought that might be the worst possibility of them all, and it was what inspired him to pick up the phone and actually call the man.

He got up and dressed quickly, because he felt that perhaps this was a conversation best had in person. He had the fellow at the front desk ring Eddie’s room, and waited impatiently for his friend to pick up.

“Yes?” Eddie answered, eventually. He sounded groggy, and Richie said, “Oh shit, Eddie, did I wake you?”

There was silence over the line, and then Eddie said, “No...I couldn’t sleep. What’s going on?”

He sounded nervous, now, because of course why would Richie be calling him unless something was wrong? _ Fuck! _ Richie thought, but it was too late for cold feet now.

“Look,” Richie said, awkwardly. “I just want to -- to talk to you about something, alright? It’s sort of important and I want you to hear it before tomorrow. Can I come over to your room?”

Eddie paused over the line. “Alright?” He said eventually, vaguely bemused. “Well, I guess. If you think it’s important.” 

“Okay,” Richie said. “Um. Okay. I’ll see you in a few,” he said, and then he hung up abruptly and cursed at himself. _ What happened to all your social graces, Records Tozier? _ He smiled wryly at himself. The man on the radio was not the man he really was, and that had always been the case.  
  
  


Eddie opened the door as soon as Richie knocked. He looked tired, and he was wearing soft cotton pants instead of the pleated suit he had worn to dinner, although he was still half-dressed -- Richie’s eyes flitted to the ruby ring; the same ring that Pennywise had sported on his finger when he was pretending to be Eddie to hurt Richie. (Because Richie was weak, _ so weak, _ for Eddie, and if they were walking into the lair of the beast, he had to acknowledge that…) 

He didn’t know where to fucking start. But if Eddie was still mad at him, them -- 

“Eddie,” Richie said awkwardly, after the door had closed behind him. “I’m sorry for calling you Eds, and all that. I don’t know what that was -- I just got caught up in the atmosphere, you know --” 

“Rich,” Eddie said, cutting him off. “It’s fine. Honestly it is. Hey, let’s sit down?” Those tired eyes looked imploringly at Richie; and he was never in any universe going to be able to say no. 

“Sure,” Richie said, and he sat down on the little wicker chair beside the table as Eddie sat down on the quilt on the bed. 

There was a moment of long, but not awkward, silence. “To be honest,” Eddie said, voice quiet, “I didn’t really hate being called Eds. When we were kids...I mean, it was like…it was like a comic book hero with a secret identity. And I could only be _ Eds _ when I was with you guys. The Losers.” 

He looked up; Richie remained silent. What was there to say to that? He waited for Eddie to finish.

“I liked being Eds,” Eddie said. “I liked...Richie, I liked you messing with me, pinching my cheeks, all that shit -- you’re an asshole but you’re my friend.” He smiled at Richie and Richie thought, _ Jesus Christ how can anyone see that smile and not fall in love? _

“Yeah,” was all he said -- all he could say. “Really?”

“Really,” Eddie said. “I...look, Rich...my relationship with my wife is maybe not as good as I’ve pretended.” He laughed a little, and then leaned over to pluck something off his bedside table. He held up the gold band. 

“Myra and I aren’t good for each other,” he said. “That’s what I’ve realized.”

“Oh,” Richie said. He’d come here to make his own confession -- this was putting him in over his head. “Shit, Eddie, I’m sorry.” 

Eddie shook his head. “Not your fault. I’ve done a lot wrong in my life, Richie.” 

“Me too -- we all have --”

Eddie laughed; it was joyless. “Did you marry your mother? Because that’s what I did. How fucked up is that?” 

Richie had nothing to say to that. If they were eleven years old, he would have leaned over and pinched Eddie’s cheek, and it would have been shameless, unburdened. But he was not eleven years old anymore.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Eddie said. “Sorry. It’s okay if you call me…whatever you want. I don’t care. I can’t be the man I was pretending to be with Myra anymore. I _ can’t_.” His voice was so strong, so upright. 

“Eds?” Richie said. He hadn’t meant to say it as a question, but it came out that way. 

“Yeah?” Eddie said. 

If Eddie was going to offer up their childhood intimacy -- then maybe it wasn’t horrible-wrong to take it. Moving in quick bursts, Richie stood up and moved to sit beside Eddie, hitching his arm around Eddie’s neck in a playful, childish faux-headlock. “Eds!” he crowed, laughing. 

“What the fuck, Rich! Back off!” but Eddie was laughing as he untangled himself from Richie’s arm, his hand lingering warm and soft on Richie’s wrist. 

“Nah, man,” Richie said, and for a brief wonderful moment he was not scared at all of what his love for Eddie meant or didn’t mean. “Not unless you really mean that…”

“I guess I don’t,” Eddie said, and then he startled Richie by looping his arm around Richie’s shoulders in return. “What did you want to talk about, anyway? You made it sound serious.” 

_ Oh, fuck. _ There was no way around the weight of that conversation, and Richie knew Eddie must feel the way that he physically stiffened. 

“I don’t know if you’ll want to hear it,” he said, because that was the most vulnerable he could make himself. 

Eddie paused, and cocked his head towards Richie, going for eye contact that Richie was reluctant to give. 

“I want --” Eddie said,

and then suddenly they both pulled up short, because there was -- 

* 

_ \-- a sharp and sudden pain, which hit like lightning and then disappeared. _

*

Mike was used to working late. He had spent countless nights alone in the Derry Public Library; alone but not necessarily lonely. After so much time spent in solitude, he almost welcomed its return...almost, but not quite. He wasn’t yet used to the Losers, them being there in actuality instead of in his plans, but -- he missed them, still, basically as soon as they left.

So, when the dark figure entered the library and appeared in Mike’s field of vision, his first reaction was not one of fear. His first reaction was that someone had come back for him; worried that he was taking too much time in compiling his notes.

He was not _ entirely _ wrong. The intruder _ was _ looking for him. 

“Hi,” Henry Bowers said. That was impossible, because Henry Bowers was behind lock and key at Juniper Hill, but -- “Hey,” Bowers said again, “Hey --” and then he said a very ugly word, a word that he’d been saying to Mike since they were both kids. “Time to fucking _ die_, boy.” 

And then he came at Mike with a knife -- the same knife he’d had so long ago.

*

From where he was slumped asleep on Mike Hanlon’s couch, Bill was having a dream. He would not remember it when he woke up. In it, Audra was crying, but not over her soulmate...she was crying over _ him_, because of him. Bill murmured something in his sleep; he was too old to sleep on couches and he was uncomfortable. He shifted and twitched for some time -- some time in which Audra cried or begged or worried, or was happy and sweet and held his hand -- and then he was startled awake, not by his soulmate because Audra was not his soulmate and he did not have one, but still by someone that he loved very much.

“Muh-Mikey?” he said aloud, and it frustrated him that he stuttered even to this empty house. He felt the sharp spike of pain and he did not know why he knew it was Mike but he _ did_, he did know -- and suddenly his mind was afire because _ Fuck that_, fuck hurting one of the Losers’ Club and getting away with it -- first Stan and now -- _ No no no! _

Bill sprang up, and he left Mike’s house with one singular goal: to protect what was threatened. They were together now; that made -- that _had_ to make -- them unstoppable.


	8. Out of the Blue...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill Denbrough beats the devil (again). The Losers finish an old fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bowers is just like, his own content warning, yanno? + one misogynistic slur + the implication of a homophobic slur. 

When Bill Denbrough awoke to a sharp pain across the flesh of his thigh, it did not occur to him to call a cab, or even to call the other Losers. Instead, he was suddenly deeply within a child’s mindset; terrified and convinced on some innate (and perhaps correct) level that the adults around him could not help him. In Derry, it seemed like that still must be true, anyway -- the part of Bill’s mind that was still rational wondered, if he tried to call a taxi just now, would anyone even answer?

And so he did what he would have done as a child -- what he _ had _ done one day right after he met Ben, right when the Losers were coming together for the first time -- he got on his trusty old bike and he fucking _ pedaled. _ For a moment there it was slow, tough going like he remembered it being, but then his strong adult body teamed up with his child mind, and Bill Denbrough rode very fast through the town of Derry that had changed so much. 

In the darkness of early evening, it was even easier than it had been in daylight to paper over the new construction and relentless new growth with his old memories, and he could have sworn to you that what he saw as he raced through quiet streets were scenes from decades previous. 

He reached the Derry Public Library in record time. It was convenient that -- whatever connection it was that the Losers had -- they did not share pain indefinitely, nor did the sensation increase the closer they physically got. That meant that when Bill hopped off Silver and let the bike topple over in the lawn, he landed on two strong legs that carried him easily up the steps; but it also meant he had no idea what he was walking into. He wanted to call out to Mike, but he knew both that he would struggle tremendously to speak at that crucial moment and that alerting whoever else was in there of his presence might not be the best idea. He had no real way of knowing that Mike had been attacked, but he _ did _ know it, and in fact he thought he knew who had done it.

  
  


He was right. 

Bill Denbrough entered the darkness of the after-hours library, and Henry Bowers was bent over the prone form of his friend. 

  
  


There was probably always going to be a part of Bill that felt _ guilty_. Guilty for letting Georgie die; guilty for letting his parents fail to love him; guilty for trapping his friends into his revenge quest when they were all kids, they were all just kids…seeing Henry Bowers go at Mike with a knife turned his guilt into rage. _ Not Mike! _ Fuck you, not Mike, not brave Mike who stayed here because we were all too _ (I was too) _ weak to do it -- _ NOT MIKE YOU BASTARD! _

Later on, he would have no recollection at all of moving across the floor to grip Bowers in his arms; he simply had to, so he did. He was still grabbing tight onto Bowers’ wrists when his friends arrived. 

*

One would think that perhaps their experience with Stan would’ve taught them how to react, how to deal with it. Certainly in an ideal world filled with only impossibly brave people that would have happened, but that is not the world in which the Losers existed. So when the pain sliced down the right thighs of all the Losers, it still them a long moment to react. 

*

“Bev?” Ben asked the darkness, and then an instant later there was a flurry of light and sound, as Beverly rolled over to flick on the light by the bedside and then sat bolt-upright, staring at him.

“No,” she said. “Not again…” but it was happening whether any of them liked it or not. 

*

Richie’s hand was still curving up around the slope of Eddie’s shoulder, and he was so ecstatic with the regained childhood intimacy that some of the confession-induced panic was starting to slip away. He was listening intently to whatever it was that Eddie had to tell him, briefly and beautifully barely scared at all -- but what came instead of Eddie's words was a desperate pained gasp from both of them. 

“Eds?” he said, as Eddie bent down, his hands grasping at his thigh.

“Rich, did you feel --” he looked up at Richie and both of them knew from the exchanged look that someone was hurt again -- and it was neither of them.

“Fuck,” Richie said, “C’mon -- I left Bev --” 

“I spoke with Ben on the landing,” Eddie said. The wide-eyed worry on his face brought the lines of his face into sharp relief; he looked older than he was. “I think they’re probably both in Beverly’s room.”

Richie nodded with uncharacteristic seriousness, and then the two of them were out of the door of Eddie’s room and down the stairs. 

They ran into Beverly and Ben on the way out of her room. 

“_Fuck_,” Beverly said, throatily, after they all spent a few seconds staring stupidly at each other. “So it’s not any of us four.”

“We tried to call Bill’s room,” Ben said. “No answer, so we called Mike’s place in case he was still there --”

“No answer there either. So it’s definitely one of them. Fuck!” Beverly said again.

“The library,” Eddie said. “Mike might still be at the library…” 

“If Big Bill felt what we felt he wouldn’t have waited around for a phone call,” Richie said. “He’s on his way over. And we should be, too.” There was something unspoken in the air: this was not allowed to take another Loser down for the count. It was hard enough without Stan. 

Outside in the dark of Derry, Richie gestured towards his car, until Eddie scoffed and rightly pointed out that his was the reasonable choice. There was something innately humorous about a pack of nervous, half-dressed adults piling into a rented limo, but even Richie had very little to say on the matter. There was mostly silence as Eddie, with a hard look in his eyes and his eyebrows pressed in an angry line, sped them towards the library.

Eventually, Beverly said, “Never thought I’d say this, but I wish we were proper soulmates right now --” she paused. Her voice did not so much sound near-tears as it did very angry. “I -- is he still hurting, is he okay --” Because of course after the sharp initial sensation their pain was gone, like Stan’s had vanished just as fleetingly. 

“I’m sure Eds doesn’t need that distraction right now,” Richie said. His feet were tapping up-down on the floor of the passenger seat; he was antsy and wanted to be driving so he could at least do _ something_. 

“Still,” Beverly said; he glanced in the mirror and saw that she was rubbing at her scarred palm with a sort of frantic aggression.

At what felt like ages (but was actually much faster than could be achieved by following the speed limit) they pulled up to the closed library. Eddie whipped the car into a parking spot, seemingly out of habit, and they all piled out. It was Eddie who saw it first.

“Look,” he said softly, pointing. 

And there it was -- it had fallen haphazardly in the lawn, and it was such an old bike, but they all knew it in an instant. 

“Christ,” Richie said. “That’s Silver. Big Bill beat us here.” 

“But how…” Ben trailed off.

“You don’t know that bike,” Richie said, with an almost religious fervor to his voice. “It can go fast enough to beat the devil, when you need it to…” 

Ben looked over and Eddie, and suddenly he recalled the first time that had met with a startling clarity. 

“I know,” he said. Had Bill really saved Eddie’s life that day? Probably not..._ surely not _. But still… he had gone so impossibly fast...

Eddie had ignored the conversation and was headed up the stairs already, Beverly hurrying after him. Together, they yanked at the door; it came open easily, unlocked or broken. 

“Oh, Hell,” Richie said, and he and Ben both jogged up the stairs to join them. They were all thinking the same anxious thought: _ What are we going to find in there? _

  
  


What they found in there was carnage. It was Hell; it was chaos. Those things were inescapable, perhaps, but the Losers walked into them like a loaded trap...they were unprepared. 

_ Blood. _ Beverly knew it instantly. The metallic scent of it was heavy in the air, and she was overwhelmed by it before she could even process what she was seeing. Mike was on the ground, in front of her...and yes, his pant leg was wet with some dark liquid.

_ Mike, _ she thought, _ Oh no it was Mike -- _

And there, standing a few feet away, being grappled back by Bill, was Henry Bowers. He had got old, and got ugly, but Beverly saw him and she wanted to run away, or beat him with something -- he was no less scary for the grey in his hair. She was also utterly sure that the knife still gripped in his fist was the same knife he’d had in the sewers, even though that was impossible.

“Help me!” Bill yelled, and she startled -- some distant part of her mind noted that those words were the only ones she’d heard him say clearly all day. Beside her, Richie swore, and then he ran over towards Bowers and Bill. Ben seemed stuck for a moment, and then he went running over after him. She herself turned desperately towards Mike (_the blood the blood oh god stop the BLOOD -- _) and she heard Eddie following behind her. 

“Mike,” she said, kneeling beside him, her heart hammering like crazy in her chest. “_Mike _?"

“Bev,” Mike said. He stared up at her with wide eyes. “You -- you all --”

“We’re all here,” she said, even as she was pressing at the bloody cut on Mike’s leg with an embroidered handkerchief that had been in her pocket. The blood soaked through her careful stitches. “We all -- felt it.”

Mike fell silent for a scary moment, but when she looked at his face he just seemed dazed, overcome.

“Thank you,” he said, and Beverly felt tears welling up in her eyes because they had all been apart for so long and that had to be wrong. 

“You’re the one bleeding under my hands,” she said. Her voice was choked. “We never should’ve left you alone --” At the library or in Derry? Both, maybe. 

“Henry was aiming to kill me,” Mike said quietly. “If Bill hadn’t got here right when he did, I’d be bleeding a lot worse right now. You saved my life.” 

Beverly opened her mouth to say something, possibly along the lines of _ You are a stupid self-sacrificing idiot who doesn’t know your own value and I love you, _ but at that moment Bowers reminded them that he was still there, and still trying to kill them, with a strangled roar. 

“Ganging up on me!” He screamed (_Oh like you weren’t ready to crush me to a bloody pulp with Huggins and Criss in tow, _ Beverly thought wildly --) “THROWING ROCKS! I’ll teach you! I’ll get you all!” The incoherence to his speech was frightening; his looks had changed, but he was still Bowers as he had been that summer -- ready and willing to genuinely fucking kill them. 

Bill had gripped Bower’s knife wielding hand, and she saw that Richie now how the other, and Ben was stepping quietly behind, to grab him by the middle, perhaps. It was surreal, surely the three of them could take him down easily? But Bowers was propelled forward by the same otherworldly strength she remembered from ‘58, and he was flailing wildly in their arms, the knife flashing dangerous and his feet stomping against their legs.

Suddenly somehow the knife-hand got loose, and Beverly wanted to look away but she couldn’t. They all watched the knife slash up Bill’s cheek; all of them felt it and all of them cried out, six-as-one (_God Stan has he been feeling this is he okay -- _ ) in a horrible cacophony. Beverly wanted to clap a hand to her un-bleeding cheek but she refused to take her hands off Mike and she shut her eyes against it. With her eyes closed the scent of blood was even more overwhelming, and she snapped them open -- just in time to see what Bowers was about to do, but not enough time to stop it. Bowers hooked his booted ankle about Ben’s and shoved at his shoulder until he went down -- Bowers had the weight on Ben, now, and Ben fell hard; she thought maybe she felt it in her back for a second but the rules of their quasi-soulmates were mysterious and anyway what did it matter _ Oh my God Ben please get up _ \--

Richie took a staggered step back as Bowers straightened, but Beverly realized that Bowers had ceased to see him and Bill at all; his eyes had alighted on the three of them. 

“Fuck!” She looked Mike in the eyes, wildly; “Keep pressure on it,” she said, and then she was scrambling up to help Eddie at his frantic search on the desk, to find any means of defence. 

Eddie had already found the only sharp thing; a cheap-looking letter-opener emblazoned with the slogan, _ JESUS SAVES_. Beverly let out a single bark of laughter at the absurdity of it, and then she hefted the largest book on the desk in front of her like a shield. 

“You helped him,” Bowers snarled. “You’re not supposed to _ help him!” _ He sounded genuinely confused and upset by this; it was terrifying. 

He stomped towards them, arms outstretched -- the switchblade still red with Bill’s blood. “It’s YOU!” he yelled in his rage. “The little cunt. All grown up. And the little fa --” before the word was even out of his mouth, though, Eddie had lunged forward with a strangled yell. He slashed wildly and perhaps stupidly at Bower’s arms; there was a flash of red, and Bowers grunted angrily -- by sheer luck he’d managed to nick Bower’s wrist. 

Bowers’ knife clattered to the floor. He lunged at Eddie with his bare hands, his meaty palms finding their way, easily, around Eddie’s neck. Eddie’s slight frame had no hope of resisting, and he staggered back wildly, struggling to breathe. He was still grasping the letter-opener, and in a desperate flail he sliced at Bower’s torso; but the man seemed barely to notice. 

Eddie’s eyes were bulging out of his head and Beverly felt horrible sudden pressure in her throat that vanished as quick as it came. She heard Mike gasp behind her and when she looked over Richie was hunched over on the floor beside Ben; Bill looking dazed and terrified with one hand to his torn cheek. 

_ NO! _Beverly’s mind roared and she thought of Tom Rogan’s bloody foot, which was terrible but a helluva lot better than being dead...she slammed the book in her hands right into Henry Bower’s head. 

He grunted like an animal, barely stunned but his hands loosened, and Eddie slipped out of his grasp and onto the floor in a heap. Bowers slammed the book out of Beverly’s hands, and she dropped down beside Eddie, covering her head. _ Well Henry it looks like I learned how to take a beating, but I never learned how to die, never learned THAT -- _

Weapons. They needed weapons. _ Rocks! _ No, not this time. They were on the floor by the trash can; Beverly reached desperately inside and _ Yes _ there were discarded beer bottles. She gripped one by the handle, and gave another to Eddie.

“It’s not much,” she said. Eddie simply nodded, and then without another word, the two of them smashed the bottles on the floor; scattering glittering glass pieces everywhere and creating two jagged torn-off things with which to defend themselves. 

Eddie wasn’t really thinking when he held the broken bottle in front of him. There was simply the rush of adrenaline from the fear and physicality of the fight, and there were thoughts swirling in the back of his head that he’d have to examine later; the yell they’d shared when Bill got cut still echoing within him. There was a terrifying numbness around the edges of his neck and he was mostly just trying to breathe. 

“Throwing glass now?” Bowers growled. He had picked up his knife again, and menacing towards them. “That’s cheating! Teach you to cheat, wheezy boy!” He lunged at Eddie, who saw the silver blade inches from his eyes, rolled swiftly out of the way. As Bowers loomed over him, he heard Beverly scream; when he looked over her saw that she’d ripped her bottle up across Bowers’ face. There was blood pouring from his face, and one eye was bulging terribly, but Beverly seemed unharmed.

Bowers seemed confused; he shook his head like a dog and blood droplets flew off him. “Gonna GIT you,” he said, and it was so stupid and absurd that Eddie almost started laughing. Beverly gritted her teeth and then stabbed at Bowers again, Eddie thought perhaps that she was going for his neck, but got his collarbone. There was blood all down Bowers’ front, now, but he’d had enough; he grabbed at the bottle in Beverly’s hand, uncaring of his own fingers, and tore it away from her. Beverly screamed, and started pounding at him with her hands. 

_ Away_. He had to get Bowers away from Beverly, because otherwise he’d kill her, and then step over her corpse and kill Mike. _ No no no -- _

There had been a paperweight on the desk --_ a rock! _Eddie grabbed it, and threw it hard at the back of Bowers’ head, where it made a horrible wet heavy noise. Bowers’ head snapped forward, there was blood in the gray hair now. It had the intended effect, and Bowers turned, teeth bared -- God that face was bad to look at, one eye irritated and red and looking about to burst -- and moved towards Eddie.

Eddie held the bottle in front of him, wildly; Bowers no longer had a weapon, and he didn’t need them, he was going to murder them all with brute force. Eddie kicked out his legs; he connected with Bowers’ ankle and the man fell heavily to his knees. There was a glint in his good eye that showed no fear, only some sick rage -- Eddie knew what was going to happen; Bowers was going to crush Eddie like a fucking bug, and strangle all the air out of him too, just for good measure. He braced the bottle against his sternum and closed his eyes. 

Bowers was heavy. His hands were heavy, too. Eddie couldn’t breathe. _ Oh, fuck. _ There was a hot sticky wetness spreading around his middle. His hands hurt. He was being crushed he was dying and he couldn’t even BREATHE -- 

“Get him off! Fuck, someone get him --” who was that? Was that Richie? Bill? He couldn’t remember, suddenly, who all it was that was in the library with him. Was everyone there? Stan? 

Finally the weight lifted off. He still couldn’t breathe, though, and there were hands on his back, making him sit up. 

“Eddie, you’re okay, Eddie, breathe, please just --” Beverly?

“Where’s his fucking aspirator?” That gasping voice was definitely Rich. Everyone was too close to him, and he spread out his arms in front of him, to keep them away. He reached into his pocket, and yes it was still there. He had thought Bowers might’ve crushed it. Eddie fired off his aspirator and his throat felt like horrible fire but he was breathing again, in small gasping breaths. 

Eventually, he said, “I think I just killed Henry Bowers,” and when he looked up all five of them were staring at him with scared eyes. “Someone check,” he insisted, when no one moved. 

Bowers was still lying just where whoever it was that’d pulled him off Eddie had shoved him, and he wasn’t moving. Bill knelt over him, and pressed a hand to his pulsepoint. He tried again, on his bloody wrist. After a moment, he stared back at them, eyes wide. “Yeah,” he said. “H-he’s dead.” 

“Fuck,” said Beverly.

“Self defense,” Richie said. “He came here to murder Mike. Premeditated…” Eddie looked at him curiously; he didn’t remember Rich being injured in the fight, but he did not look good. 

“Eddie, are you okay?” That gentle voice was Mike. 

“Yes,” Eddie said, firmly. “I just need...a minute --” how long would it take for breathing to stop hurting? 

“Mike, you’re still bleeding!” he let the conversation carry on, away from him. He heard Mike say he had a first-aid kit in the desk, and watched Ben step around to get it, limping a little like he’d perhaps twisted his ankle in the fall. 

Someone sat down beside him. He looked up; it was Richie. He smiled at Eddie. “I wish we could tell our younger selves about _ this _ bit,” he said. 

Eddie tried to laugh, only to find it hurt too much. Richie winced, and touched at his own throat in sympathy. 

“Sorry.” 

“No, you’re right,” Eddie said. He could remember the terrible helpless fear that had loosened all his joints on that day Bowers and his friends broke his arm, and he could remember the overwhelming pain of it, too, twisting up and down his arm like knives and making it all but impossible to think. “Some people never grow up,” he said. “I guess Bowers was one of them.” They looked at the corpse for a long silent moment.   
  


Ben made Eddie clean off his hands. They didn’t hurt very much, but the bottle had slipped under Bowers’ weight and sliced open his palms. The cuts were small, but he let Ben smear antibiotic cream over them, and flexed them under the clean bandage. “Thank you,” he said, and he remembered Ben sitting with him all those years ago, with a grim and steady determination. _ Whatta a way to become friends. _ Suddenly, he laughed. Ben smiled at him questioningly.

“This is just like the day we met.” 

Ben laughed too, at that.

“Hell,” he said. “I guess it is.” Down to Bill and Silver, it was...the scene twisting back in time impossibly, pulling the lucky seven in a wide circle around their lives -- whatever that meant.  
  


There was a discussion going on beside them between Mike, Beverly, and Bill; the main topic of which seemed to be that Mike should go the hospital so that someone actually qualified could decide whether he needed stitches. Mike’s first-aid kit was extensive, and Eddie had offered up his personal collection of pain pills, but inconveniently enough none of the Losers had grown up to be a doctor.

“Look,” Mike was saying, and there was something in his voice that made them all listen. “It’s started...you all _ know _ it’s started. There’s a dead man not five feet away from us. If we go to a hospital right now -- Eddie covered in his blood -- what do you think will happen?”

“Oh come _ on_,” Beverly said. “I get that It’s powerful but --”

“He’s right,” Eddie spoke up. Because he was suddenly very sure that Mike was. “We’ll be wanted for questioning at the very _ least _ \-- and maybe then there’ll be another of those horrible and impossible Derry accidents that Mike was telling us about --”

“There has to be _ someone _ we can go to,” Beverly said. She looked desperately at the others for back-up. 

“It was self-defense,” Richie said quietly. “But also it was six versus one. How are those odds gonna look to a jury?”

“It’s just -- that’s not --” Beverly’s face was tight and red with fear and anger.

“It’s like we’re kids again,” Ben said. “All on our own.”

“Invisible,” Bill said, “luh-like ghosts. B-but Mikey --”

“I’ll be fine, Bill. I need to be a part of this. You don’t -- I don’t say this out of bitterness, but none of you can understand how long I’ve been preparing for this.” That sent a heavy silence through the group. None of them could debate the veracity of the statement.   
  


“Are you shu-sure, Mikey?” Bill said, and Mike thought maybe he asking in the hopes that Mike would say, _ Actually you’re right, can you drive me to the hospital, Bill, I gotta get some stitches? _ and then they’d all have a little bit more time. But he _ was _ sure. This wasn’t how he’d planned for them to venture down under Derry, but there was something in the cooling night air -- an animal scent, perhaps, if that animal was very old and very large and very hungry. 

“I’m sure,” he said. “But, look -- I still can’t make any of you do this if --” 

He saw Richie roll his eyes, and Beverly said, “Oh, Mike, enough...you aren’t making anyone do this. We _ promised _…” he looked around, the rest of them were nodding. He stared for a moment at all them. The fresh bandage on Bill’s cheek already had blood spotting it, and Eddie’s sweater was a sopping red mess.

“Time to keep our promise,” Ben said, firmly, and that was that. Beverly helped Mike to his feet, and the pain wasn’t too bad, now that Eddie’s pills were starting to kick in. 

The six Losers that had made it to Derry stood in the library lobby for a moment, looking at the mess around them and at each other. They were not standing tall or proud; they all looked like shit. But there was a curious hardness to their gaze; a sort of childish bravery. If the thing under Derry had seen them at the moment, perhaps it would have even been scared.


	9. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last time they went down under Derry, it ended like this.

They didn’t yet know how it would end, when they went down under Derry with their grown-up bodies and their grown-up minds; but as the Losers left the Derry Library behind with its bloody secrets, they were all remembering how it had ended the first time around. 

In 1958 it had finished out like this: seven children lined up in the sewers, hands clasped tight around each other. They were trying to get out because they were tired and terrified and there was blood and filth on their clothing and skin. They thought they had killed the monster, except for how some of them held some lingering doubts that they didn’t want to voice.

Eddie was leading, because he was the only one who knew where he was going, and that was holding true despite the fact that he was holding his aching broken arm out in front of him and that his face was white with shock and fear. Bill had his other hand in a death grip; he was still the leader so he had to go next. 

The others trailed behind them in a simple and matter-the-fact way, because it was _Eddie_ and he could find the way; he was perhaps the only person in all of Derry who could step into the beast’s lair and still find his way back out. It was not a skill that had ever been encouraged -- or even acknowledged -- by his mother, but like many things about Eddie -- she had no power to stop it. Eddie’s skill was _ his_, and certainly Eddie looked up to Bill, Big Bill, in many arenas, but now it was Bill’s turn to be impressed, lovingly and deeply impressed, and he clung tight to Eddie’s small hand.   
  
  


The thick scent of It was all around them, near overwhelming -- the animal-smell and the sewer-smell; and then there was the darkness, the darkness that was almost a blessing after what’d they seen. But already they were forgetting...the true form of It was not something they’d properly seen and years later an adult Mike Hanlon would look back on that fact and thank God.

Because the thing was it did almost feel like something _else_ had gotten them out, something beyond childhood luck and something beyond hurting the creature -- and maybe that Other presence was God. Most of the Losers did not grow up to be religious, but even Richie, a self-professed atheist, would have looked at the facts of that day and said, _Maybe. Could be._ _Could be something._

Something, and Eddie Kaspbrak. That’s what brought them up and out of the darkness.   
  
  


“Right,” Eddie said, swinging his cast in the appropriate direction. Then he stopped short, quick enough that Bill bumped into him, and Stan into Bill. “No -- left,” Eddie said. Then he laughed.

“Almost got that wrong,” he said to Bill. His voice was soft, but it carried, and all the Losers heard. “Almost. We coulda been lost down here for a_ long _ time. But it’s left. I know it is. And we’re almost there.”

“Huh-hear that, g-guys?” Bill said, even though he knew that they had. “Almost th-there.” 

Eddie pointed true. They turned and stomped and waded through water that smelled more and more like fresh sewage, and who could imagine that that was a good thing? But even Stan did not complain, though his hands were clammy where they were clasped by Bill and Beverly. In fact they were all quiet, even Richie; there was only the nervous inhales and harsh breaths that a climb like that would warrant. The Losers Club hung on to each other, desperately, and finally cool air brushed up against their faces, seemingly out of nowhere --

“Here,” Eddie said, calmly, and he’d brought them right back to the ladder they’d climbed down in the first place.

“Thank God,” Beverly said, in a strained high voice; everyone else privately agreed.

With his role completed, Eddie turned strangely shy. “Can I have a boost up back up, Bill?” he said, and in the dim light from the pulled-open pipe they could see he was blushing, ever-so-slightly. 

“Sure,” said Bill, who would’ve carried Eddie anywhere he’d like, if he’d asked just then. He let go of Stan’s hand to grip Eddie in a tight hug. 

“Thu-thank you,” he said, roughly. “For being our c-compass…” 

“Aw, Bill,” Eddie said softly. “It was no big thing…” 

“Fuck that it wasn’t,” Richie said, leaping forward from the end of the line. He tackled the two other boys into his own hug. “You’re amazing, Eds!”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie said, but Bill felt the curve of his smile where Eddie’s face was pressed against his shoulder. 

It was Beverly who threw herself on them, next. “I love you,” she said, and her tired voice now sang of happiness and of triumph. “I love all you guys, really I do…” 

“Love you too,” Richie said. “Mwah!” he pressed a sloppy kiss to her forehead, which made her squeal, and Stan laugh. 

“Beep-beep, Richie,” Stan said, and then he hugged Richie tightly, his arms reaching to grip Beverly’s hand once again. 

Ben and Mike looked at each other, and they smiled. Together they stepped forward and wrapped their arms around the other Losers and for a long moment, seven dirty-terrified children hugged each other, and some of them cried and some of them laughed, but all of them felt better for it.   
  


_ Out, _ was all Bill could think when his head crested the pipe and the clean breeze was on his face again..._Out, out, out! _Eddie had his arms tight around him again and his cast was pressed in a hard, uncomfortable line to Bill’s collarbone, but he barely noticed -- he laughed, even though he’d been one of the ones crying just a moment ago, and he heard Eddie give a little whistling laugh, too.

“What’s so frockin’ _ funny?_” Richie’s voice called up from the depths.

“Nothing,” Bill said. “N-nothing’s funny. Everyone climb uh-out, quick.”

They did, and he crouched down so that Eddie could get off his shoulders. When Ben, the last to climb the ladder, stood beside him, something lifted off of Bill’s shoulders. 

_ We’re out here, _ he thought, _ and it’s down there dying...we made it out. All of us. _That had to be a god-damn miracle, right? 

Seven children of Derry looked at each other solemnly. They were all disgustingly filthy and they were all tired, and most of them were bleeding a little. But they had done it. They had a promise to make, and they would make it seriously, with blood -- but then it was time to go home. Time to be children again, and time to forget. For a time, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude before we descend down under Derry once more -- that's the next chapter (which'll be full-length again) and I'll hopefully post it tomorrow!


	10. ...and Into the Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Losers walk into the belly of the beast.

_ // Atlanta, Georgia _

Patty Uris couldn’t sleep. She awoke in the early hours of the morning, and if she had been dreaming she did not remember it. But it was still true that regardless of the reasons, she simply could not sleep. The bed was so cold. It seemed unfathomable that for the first twenty-two years of her life she had largely slept alone; after nearly that amount of time with Stanley it was no longer something she could stand. She had been sleeping alone and sleeping alone and sleeping alone again and God it was terrible, she was going to go to the hospital and _ Yes, sure _ they would not let her see Stanley for some hours yet, but she could sit outside his room and she could wait. She tucked a small notebook into her purse because her mother had said, _ Write your thoughts or write him letters or write Him letters but please my darling do not lock everything up inside, it will only hurt you _\-- and Patty was trying to take her mother’s advice with a commitment that would’ve seemed absurd to her mildly-rebellious teenage self.

It was a strange feeling to drive so early; it was a time of the world she essentially never experienced (_ anymore _; she and Stanley used to stay up this late, making love or drinking wine or just talking and laughing --). The world was still mostly asleep, but she was not alone in the land of the living; other cars driving to and from wherever they were going; to work or home or to their lover’s house in secret solitude. Patty, despite her secret-shameful-anger, had a kind heart, and she hoped all those other people’s paths worked out. 

The hospital was eerily, unnaturally, quiet. She entered silently and walked with soft feet to the psychiatric unit which was where Stanley was now, until they deemed him -- in all their wisdom -- mentally sound enough to leave. She was not bitter, in a very careful way. She sat outside in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. She tugged her cardigan around her shoulders. Perhaps she could fall asleep again here, but she doubted it. She opened her little notebook and wrote in blue ink-pen, ‘Dear Stanley.’ After that she did not know what to say. 

She kept expecting to see a nurse or a doctor with weary eyes; where was the night staff? It occurred to her belatedly that she had not passed a single employee since she had entered the building. That couldn’t be right. 

Eventually Patty Uris stood up and she tried the door to the room that her husband was in. It opened easily. She slipped inside and soon enough she was standing beside the bed that held her man. 

She had a thought then that was perhaps uncharacteristic for a woman who did not enjoy horror -- that she was like a ghost, and that there were monsters lurking in every corner. But when she pulled the curtain aside, no one stopped her, and nothing reacted.

Stanley was already awake. In fact, he was sitting up in bed.

He turned to her with startled terrified eyes -- like perhaps he, like she, had half-expected to see some beast lurking in the corner...maybe a werewolf from Stuttering Bill’s book. 

“_Patty? _” he said, after a moment’s processing time. “What -- how -- ?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came here...I was just going to wait, but...there was no one here…”

“Oh God,” Stanley said. “It’s starting again. But how -- in _ Atlanta? _”

_ What? _ “What?” 

He looked at her directly now, and his eyes were less shocked but no less scared. Patty sat down abruptly in the same uncomfortable chair she’d grown to know. 

“When we were kids in Derry,” he said, softly, like it was a secret. “This is what it was like…” 

She almost asked him what he meant -- but somehow she _ knew _ what he meant; he was saying that his childhood home had turned into a ghost town. 

“The sorts of terrible things that happen in Derry should’ve been noticed by someone. _ But they weren’t. _ Patty...I...someone should’ve stopped you at the door…”

“Are we in danger?” Oh, damn this chair -- Patty stood up out of it and climbed into Stan’s little bed and sure it was tight but there was no one to stop her, now...Stan looked at her, dazed, then shifted so they could both sit. 

“Yes,” Stanley said. “I think we probably are. I thought -- we’re so far away, but...I guess I’m still part of it.”

He looked at her, and she felt certain he was swallowing down some desperate guilt, right then. 

“It’s not you that’s doing this,” she said, with all the conviction she could muster. “Stanley, please…” She was not even quite sure what she was asking for from him.

“I know,” Stan said. “I know...but I just wish...this was never supposed to touch _ you. _”

“Well,” she said, and tried for a smile. “We’re a package deal…” 

Stanley gave her a hesitant smile in return. He sighed a little, and leaned back against the raised head of the bed; Patty instinctively laid her head atop his chest. Through the thin fabric of his t-shirt -- they had allowed him that, at least, and hospital trousers, but she wanted him _ home _ dammit -- she could feel the beat of his heart. It seemed too-fast…

“I awoke from terrible dreams,” he said. His uninjured arm was stroking gently over her shoulder. “My friends, they all went back home…” A chill dripped unbidden down her spine at that. There were places that it simply was not safe to go...

“Are _ they _ in danger?” She said, although she knew the answer already.

“Oh,” Stanley said. “Certainly.”   
  


_ // Derry, Maine _

Richie drove them away from the library because Eddie’s hands were all cut-up. His hand drifted towards the radio dial, but Eddie slapped it away, and well, it was still _ his _ vehicle. The ride was quiet, and tense, Bill and Mike had a brief conversation about logistics, in the back, and Beverly wondered aloud whether Stan had felt Bowers attacking them. They agreed that he probably had, which was kind of chilling. 

Richie parked the limo in the same place they used to leave their bikes. From here, it had to be on foot.

Into the Barrens; across the fields; to the opened-up old pipe; down the ladder. It started like that -- not _ easy _ \-- but doable. Mike was the last one down the ladder, because it was hard to climb with a deep gash like that. 

“This is not,” he said, as they all stood in the dirty blackness, “How I imagined this starting.”

“You’re right, though,” Richie said. He had been second-to-last down, and was looking at over at where their leaders -- Bill and Eddie -- stood. “It’s time.” 

_ Time for what, though? _ They were all thinking it. _ Time to float, time to die? _ But even then...if they were going to die at least they were entering into the final battle on their own terms. By the skin of their teeth and without Mike’s maps or safety gear, but still.

“Luh-let’s go,” Bill said. Beside him, Eddie nodded.

“This way,” he said, easily, and then they were off.   
  


In the sewers under Derry, Beverly Marsh thought, _ We’re a lot bigger than we used to be. _ Tom had always tried to make her small, but he hadn’t quite managed it. They had walked this path once, and now they were bent halfway over trying to make their way through. She knew that soon enough they’d been crawling on their hands and knees, undignified and desperate. 

Ben was behind her; she wanted suddenly to take his hand, but there was not really enough space for that. Ah well. She could hear the steady in-out of his breath; she watched the rhythmic steps of Eddie’s loafers in front of her. Last time, it had been Stan she was following…

They reached a branch in the path and stopped short, all of them them bumping into each other. “What’s the road block?” Richie called from behind her; she thought he was going for an annoyed tone but he didn’t quite hit it. 

“I need a light, Big Bill,” Eddie said softly. Beside him, Bill nodded, and struck one of the matches that Richie had collected. In the brief flare of the tiny flame, they in front of them two long twisting pipes; one maybe five feet tall and one smaller and darker and wetter. In front of the latter was a corpse. 

“Christ,” said Richie, who’d come to the front of the group to see. “Oh, Christ!” 

“It’s just Hockstedder again,” Eddie said quietly. “See? We’re going the right way.” 

No one had doubted that, though. Bill lit another match, so they could see again, and Eddie stepped carefully around the corpse -- it was just bones now; bones and tattered clothing -- and ducked into the smaller of the pipes. He crouched down and looked back at the rest of them. 

“We’ll have to crawl,” he said. “But we’ll fit.” 

“Let’s fucking go, then,” Richie said; he had stepped back to help Mike, who was lagging. “Alright, Mikey?” 

“Yeah,” Mike said, and he voice didn’t sound as strained as Beverly would’ve expected. “I’m just getting...well. Getting scared, now.” 

And that was the thing. It didn’t matter how calm they were or how confident Eddie was in his directions; there was a horrible stomach-sinking fear building in them all. Beverly kept seeing parading images behind her eyes, of rodents marching into a trap. _ Snap! _ That was the sound of the trap coming down and shattering their tiny necks. 

“Keep your head up, Mike,” Richie said quietly, and Bill said, “Onward,” so one by one file they got down on their hands and knees and they crawled.   
  


They made their way forward in the mud and muck and for some time that was it. They were all too stuck in their own heads, thinking their own nervous thoughts, for there to be much conversation at all. 

The tunnels were worryingly small until they weren’t. And from there they grew to be worryingly large, and then eventually the Losers were walking through a lit-up wide-open space, like an abandoned cathedral. (Mike Hanlon thought to himself, _ But there is no God down here_, and shivered.) 

“Why haven’t we --” Beverly started, then cut herself off. She laughed, an anxious laugh. “Shit, I shouldn’t jinx it.” 

“Why haven’t we seen anything yet?” Ben finished for her, quietly. He turned towards Bill as he said it, but Bill’s face was pinched with determination and concentration, and he himself glanced back at Mike before answering.

But Mike did not want to say anymore than Bill did. It was Eddie, in fact, who broke that tense silence. “It’s waiting for us.” 

“Yeah,” Mike said. He stepped forward so he could lay a comforting hand on Bill’s shoulder. _ Don’t fail us now, Big Bill. _ “But we expected that, didn’t we?” 

“It’s probably in the walls right now, waiting to jump out and eat our heads off,” Richie said. He let out a crazed laugh; his face was pale and damp with sweat. “Aw, fuck it,” he said. “C’mon, Bill, you and I -- we saw something I think, and --” he shook his head. “I can’t remember. Even now. But we came back from _ that _. Let’s do it again.” 

“I don’t know w-what we’ll do,” Bill said. He turned towards Mike. “The Lucky Seven...I wuh-wish Stan was here.” 

“It tried to kill him,” Beverly said. She and Ben had shifted to be with each other; she was gripping Ben’s hand tightly. “But it failed. God, I hope the fucker’s _ scared _.” 

“Yeah,” Richie muttered. “I’m sure it’s terrified.”

They ignored him. Mike said, hesitant, “Maybe this sounds odd, but I can’t help but feel that Stan _ is _ kind of here with us, in his own way. We’re the Lucky Seven.” 

Richie laughed another unpleasant laugh. “Well hey, in that case, let’s all hold hands and sing kumbaya!” 

“Oh, shut up, Rich.” That was Eddie, but he didn’t sound as annoyed as he had in the library. If anything, the look he gave Richie was gentle. “Can’t you ever just _ ask _for help?” He grabbed Richie’s hands in his own; for a moment Richie stared at him, nonplussed, but then he laughed, genuinely this time. 

“Thanks, Eds,” he said. “I feel better already.” 

Eddie smiled, holding their joined hands in between them. “Thought you might.” 

Bill chuckled softly, and when he did Mike felt the gentle shift of his shoulders under his hand. He squeezed softly, then let go. 

Mike looked around himself, and realized, belatedly, that it had been easy to see everyone’s clasped hands -- too easy. The strange otherworldly light had been building as they walked; now it was everywhere, and quite bright. 

“Guys --” he said, and Bill turned immediately; Beverly letting go of Ben’s hand to jump forward. 

“Look,” Mike said, simply -- because there it was, the little door with the ambiguous marking.

It was still small, still a children’s fairytale door, and there were still tiny bones scattered around its edges, a fact that was even more disturbing now that they were grown to adulthood. 

“The door,” Beverly said. Her voice was steady; steadier than Mike’s aching leg felt, anyway. “It hasn’t changed.” _ So much has. But not this... _

“Into the lair of the beast,” Richie said quietly. “That seems pretty fuckin’ stupid, doesn’t it?” He and Eddie had yet to move; they were still holding on tightly to each other.

“We don’t have any other choice,” Mike said, simply, thinking of his father’s farm logic. You don’t go after wild animals, but if a fox gets into the chicken pens…

“I know,” Richie said, mollified, in a strangely childish voice. “Yeah, I know. Let’s do it, then.” Finally dropping Eddie’s hand, he pushed towards the front of the pack, and smiled up at Bill. “C’mon, Big Bill…”  
  


_ //IT _

The Losers were, in fact, correct: the thing under Derry was waiting for them.

It knew that they were coming and it took many forms to terrify them, practicing its human-dance alone in the dark with only its brood for company. It was perhaps angry and perhaps scared but it was like a child that had not learned names for its moods yet...and it did not plan on learning. It was hungry, though, always that. It spun its web, and waited.

The first two grown-up children entered its home. 

_ HELLO, LITTLE SCARED THINGS! _ It thought. It remembered them from an old raggedy house on Neibolt. They were brave enough to investigate, sure, but they had run screaming all the same...and there was nowhere to run now.

The creature under Derry became the Teenage Werewolf, and he roared, open-mouthed, salivating; hungry. 

*

Bill climbed through the door with Richie on his toes and for a long moment he simply blinked into the eerie light, trying to process what he was seeing. There was a shape in the distance -- coming closer -- and then the shape _ roared_, and bounded for them like a wild animal. Bill processed only dark fur and long limbs and sharp teeth, until --

“It’s the fucking werewolf!” Richie yelled, and Bill tried to shift him out of the way but Richie seemed immovably scared. “Bill, no -- it’s -- _ remember? _” And of course Bill did remember. 

“We got away from it then, Rich, it’s --” But the truth was that this was not the same beast. It was growing impossibly larger; no longer confined to the grim little house it could be as large as it wanted and apparently it wanted _ huge_. Dimly, Bill was aware that his friends were calling out to them, he could hear Beverly and Mike saying...saying...something…

“You’re not real!” he screamed at the beast, but he knew the problem as soon as he said it -- he did not quite believe that. 

“OH I’M REAL ENOUGH,” the werewolf said. And then it threw back its head and laughed.

Bill gritted his teeth, because something wasn’t right here; the ritual (_What ritual? Chüd of course, _ his memory answered --) wouldn’t work until the thing took off its glamour. But why would it drop that when Richie had fallen to his knees in fear before it? Last time...last time they had…

(Last time they had caught it at something approaching unawares but this time it was lying in wait, Oh _ fuck _\--)

The werewolf’s claws sliced through the air, and Bill barely ducked out of the way in time. He saw it was headed next towards Richie, and he grabbed his friend and pulled them both to the floor -- 

*

\-- and there they were, the little scared things rolling around on the ground like ants...except more mindless. It laughed to itself, privately...it was foolish to have ever been afraid; that was a useless emotion for one such as itself. 

It wanted to season the meat. Time for a meal.

It leaned down towards one of the pathetic things, and plucked the little glass bits it used to see right off its face, tossing them to the damp ground.

_ CAN YOU SEE ME NOW? _ It thought at the little thing. _ ARE YOU SCARED? _ The human’s eyes widened to hear words in its puny mind, and it scrambled away along the ground, one hand grasping at the amusing little spectacles and the other reaching for its friend, but Oh old Bobbie Gray remembered that friend. _ That _ little thing had talked to the Turtle and perhaps It was not scared anymore but it was still angry. _ Time to die! _ It thought, this time only to itself. 

The werewolf raised a giant heavy claw and --

* 

Eddie Kaspbrak was gonna rip his hair out; because Pennywise was the Teenage Werewolf and he was here; in front of them already when they’d scrambled through the little door after Richie, and none of them were even fighting it; _ Sure he was scared but those were his goddamn friends so why was everyone just standing there! _

He couldn’t let it kill them, God, not after they’d made it this far; not Richie, not Bill (please no not Big Bill we’re well and truly fucked without him and plus what I always knew was true still is, I guess, that I would die for him --) and anyway it was only a stinking werewolf. But Bill and Richie were on the ground in front of it and it was very large indeed. Beside him Ben and Beverly and Mike were all yelling but they weren’t _ moving _ , no one was _ doing _ anything and _ C’mon we gotta those’re my FRIENDS -- _

Eddie pulled his aspirator from his pocket and pressed it briefly to his lips. _ You worked once before oh please God let it work again, let it burn like it does on a bad day, on a hundred bad days, let this awful thing that eats children have a bad day for once -- _

Eddie gave a war-cry and leapt forward, past his still-frozen friends and then in front of Richie and Bill, who stared up at him with wide, confused eyes. Eddie raised both hands into the air; with one he slammed the beast harshly across the snout. It opened its mouth to growl and scream at him, and when it did Eddie’s other hand plunged forward with his aspirator. He triggered it off into the beast’s open maw.

“BATTERY ACID!” he cried. “EAT THIS, YOU BASTARD!” 

The fur on the werewolf’s muzzle began to steam and melt; it gave a horrible cry of shock and pain as dark blood began to slick down the front of its pelt. And then it did what a wounded animal will -- it _ bit. _

*

“_Eddie!_” Beverly screamed. She felt the sharp cracking pain of Eddie’s arm but more horrible than that was that he was right in front of her, right in front of her and Ben and Mike and his arm, Oh God _his whole arm_ _was in the mouth of the beast._

“Eddie!” She screamed again, and reached out blindly for Ben, unable to take her eyes off Eddie as blood began to track down his shirt sleeve. “We’ve got to get him free --” 

She found Ben’s elbow, finally, and pulled him forward.

*

Ben was behind Beverly when the thing bit Eddie, and probably that was a good thing; the pain was paralyzing and left him stalled even once it faded, riding out the mental aftershocks -- and how were they going to get him out of its fucking _ jaw _ \-- 

Beverly was yelling and her hand crept back and searched until she found him; and then together they bounded forward as finally Eddie began to move again, began to fight. 

*

Richie’s first thought was that he was being killed. That was how intense the sudden shock of it was. He’s never felt anything like this, not ever, not even when Mike got stabbed or when Stan hurt himself. It was so overwhelming that it blew out his rational mind and he thought, _ Jesus fuck that’s it for me I guess -- _

Except that the pain kept going and going and he didn’t die, so he shoved his glasses onto his bleary eyes and he tried to look around for help and -- 

_ Oh Christ oh no NO NO _

\-- because Eddie was in the maw of the beast; literally; the werewolf had its jaw clamped around Eddie’s arm, and Eddie wasn’t even screaming (but then neither had Richie, was this shock? Was Eddie really dying?) 

Richie tried to speak, but choked on it. He tried to sit up, to get to Eddie, but he couldn’t seem to do that, either.

*

_ Fuck, _ was all Mike thought when he felt it; felt the jagged snap -- he broke his wrist once, right after high school, and that was nothing to this, even through the haze of pain medication. _ Fuck_, he thought, because how --

But then it was gone, as quick as it came. When he looked up, however, he could see that Eddie was bleeding, and disconcertingly still. _ C’mon, _ he thought, _ Fight it... _

*

When they were sharing his bed, Stanley had said to his wife in a low quiet voice, “Talk to me...let’s just talk,” and so Patty did. She was telling him about something her mother had said to her the previous day, when all of a sudden Stanley shot straight up and cried out. His good hand flew to his injured arm, but high -- near his shoulder -- and she didn’t know what -- _ Oh God NOW what _ \-- because he could not be hurt, she felt nothing --

“No!” Stanley cried, and she was shocked to see that tears had sprung instantly to his eyes. “No! Not again -- oh oh no --” 

“Stanley!” She said, “Please, what’s --”

“My friends,” Stanley said, and he toppled back on the pillow as the sudden spike of energy seemed to leave him. “I…” his eyes got dark and focused. “Eddie…”

Patty did not know what to say, or do -- it was...it was not that she was _ jealous_, but it was so _ strange_, that Stanley had this connection when it had only been her and him for so long. And yes, she was scared of it -- because that connection had already hurt him so badly. But at the same time she was remembered all the strange things he’d said waking from dreams, and she thought that perhaps she needed that connections, needed those friendships. 

And the way he’d felt that was like...well. She could understand _ that_. She pressed a hand to the mark on her breast.

“Your friend is hurt?” She said, her voice only shaking a little. She was going to have tears in her eyes to match her husband’s soon.

*

The pain was so intense that Bill slammed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth and then finally blessedly it was over -- after only a few seconds that felt far longer. He was still on the ground, and Eddie had leapt in front of him. _ God Eddie, no, why would you -- ? _But maybe any one of them would’ve done it for any other. 

He was still pressed up against Richie where they’d both gone sprawling, and Richie was shaking. He was saying something, too, and eventually Bill could hear it: 

_ No Eds no no no -- _

Bill swallowed the ball of guilt and rage that was bubbling up inside and let it give him strength. He sat up, pulling Richie with him as best he could. 

“_Eddie! _ ” he bellowed. “Eddie, fight it! _ FIGHT IT! _” 

*

When Eddie was eleven years old, bigger boys had attacked him and his arm had shattered under the weight of his own body and at the time that had been the worst thing he ever felt. 

The bite was not like that.

There was no space left within Eddie for rational thought. All impulses narrowed to one single point, and that point was this: GET OFF GET OUT LET GO. He flailed his other arm, wildly, coming in contact with the sickening dark thick blood; he screamed. His injured arm tried to move, too, despite the agony that came with it; his fingers twitched, almost wild and out of control. 

It was luck, more than anything else, that let him keep his arm: his free hand slammed at one of the creature’s eyes at the same time his fingers twitched on the aspirator and set it off again. The beast swallowed more poison, and it howled; Eddie collapsed to the ground, his shattered arm coated in saliva and bleeding. Eddie was starting to feel dazed, vague...perhaps the pain was _ not _ so bad, after all. He looked up at the beast for a moment, and made the briefest of eye contacts with its angry-hurt eyes. He smiled. 

* 

“Eddie!” Beverly screamed, a hand alighting to touch her own shoulder, although of course it was uninjured. She startled forward, Ben in tow, and Mike limped after her. 

Bill and Richie were still on the ground from the beast’s initial attack although they were upright now. Richie’s glasses were crooked on his face and one of the lenses had a jagged crack down the side. The werewolf was still there, but it had fallen back in its injury. Beverly ignored it entirely, crouching down beside Eddie.

Mike helped Bill to his feet, and they looked at each other.

“Let’s kill it, Big Bill,” he said, simply. “We have to.” 

He didn’t really know _ how _ they were going to do that, but he knew innately that Eddie had shifted the balance; they were a threat, now. He and Bill looked up at the werewolf, and although it was still impossibly large, it was hunched over with its pain, and as they watched it began to back away.

“You can’t kill me,” it said. “You don’t even know what I AM!” 

“We will, though,” Bill said grimly, looking at it with oddly calm eyes. “We’ll know, soon.” Mike thought perhaps that Bill was starting to remember things that only he could remember, things that he alone had experienced. 

Perhaps it was that which did it, or perhaps it was Eddie’s poison still seeping into its insides, or perhaps it was the mere fact that it had entirely failed to kill a single member of the Lucky Seven, but -- the werewolf growled at them, one more time, and then it turned tail and ran back into the sewers; its form shifting and undulating underneath its chosen glamour. 

Bill managed a step or two forward, but there was an odd rumbling from their surroundings; stone bricks starting to crumble, and beside them, Beverly was saying desperately, “Eddie, _ Eddie,_ Eddie _ come on _” -- and Bill turned away from the retreating monster and towards their fallen friend. 

Eddie’s head was propped up in Beverly’s lap, and his eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted. Through the splatter of mud and blood and the beast’s spittle, Eddie looked hurt, hurt _ bad_, and it was genuinely difficult to look at his actual injury. The bite was brutal and right under his shoulder; the bone of his upper arm distorted and obviously broken. The impossibly large gauges from the werewolf’s teeth were bleeding swiftly even as Beverly was desperately trying to cover them with her hands. 

For a long moment, Mike couldn’t move; he felt almost like throwing up. But he had -- he had not prepared himself for this (he could not have, and he knew that) but he had spent so long thinking of his friends and thinking about his father and his father saying, _ It was Trev that got me out, not _ just _ Trev, but Mike, son, I tell you I was _frozen -- 

“Let me see him, Beverly,” Mike said, and he lowered himself down with his injured leg spread behind him and he pressed a handkerchief to the bleeding punctures, lifting Eddie’s arm so it was raised above his heart. There was gauze, somewhere, grabbed from his first aid kit in a desperate bid to ward off harm, and he finally managed to locate it. His vision was getting hazy -- was he crying. 

“Mike,” that was Beverly. “Mike, let me --” she was taking the gauze out of his hands. 

“He’s hurt,” Richie’s voice -- choked up with pain or stress or fear or something -- emerged after so much silence. “Guys, he’s hurt really bad --”

“I _ know_, Rich,” Beverly snapped. There was that sound again in her voice, of choked-back tears, “I know, just let --” 

“Richie?” and oh, that was Eddie. 

Mike watched through his blurred eyes as Richie scrambled forward to be close to Eddie. Richie was pale and scared too; in all honesty he looked worse that Bev and almost as bad as Eddie. He leaned close down over his friend. 

“Eds,” Richie said. “I’m here...” 

Mike half-expected Eddie to say, _ Don’t call me Eds, _ but he did not. 

“Rich,” Eddie said. “Hey, there was -- something -- you know, I --” He coughed a little, and his whole arm twitched with it.

“It’s okay -- Eds, just, just breathe, okay? We got this, we got -- you --” Richie had his hand on Eddie’s uninjured shoulder, now, and his eyes were wide with stress and terror. 

“I’m breathing, Rich,” Eddie said, and he laughed, his body and arm shaking with it; his wound bleeding with it. “For once, that’s -- not the problem --” 

“Fuck,” Richie said, his voice cracking on the word. Mike couldn’t look at the tears peeking out of the corner of his eyes, knowing it would make his own crying worse. Richie looked wildly at Beverly. “Help him,” he said.

“I’m trying --” Beverly gasped, and that was what finally shocked Mike from his inaction. 

He laid his hands over top of hers, gently, and then Ben leaned in too, to steady her shoulders -- and then they were all wrapping Eddie’s wound and elevating his arm even though Mike’s hands were shaking -- and the bleeding was starting to slow, starting to become a weak oozing that would halt soon enough. 

“_Eddie, _” Richie said, they all shifted so that they could be closer. Richie cupped both his hands around Eddie’s face. 

Eddie reached up with his uninjured hand and his fingertips brushed lightly against Richie’s cheek before falling back, his hand curled loosely by his side. 

“I’m,” he said, his voice a tiny desperate whisper, “I’m okay --” although it was obvious to all of them that perhaps he was not. 

“Eds,” Richie said, and his face was pressed so close now that his glasses were hanging off his nose, almost touching Eddie’s -- “Eds you gotta get up, we gotta get you outta here, okay --” 

There was some voice inside of Mike that told him to move on, to ignore the pain in Richie’s voice and in the hitch of Eddie’s breath, to go kill the beast and fuck all else -- but in the end it was as simple as this: he could not do it.

They promised to come back if it wasn’t dead, yeah, but more than that, they promised _ each other. _ If the circle was broken, so was everything else. 

“We’re going to get you out of here, Eddie, okay?” Beverly said, and Mike thought, _ Yeah we will, and maybe everything else is a wash but we gotta be able to stand together, to fight together, _ that _ was the promise, not abandoning each other like so much loose change _ \-- 

They had to kill It, sure, but Eddie -- oh sweet Eddie, brave Eddie -- how would they even get _ out _ without him? 

‘You’re gonna be _ fine_, man,” Richie said, and his hands dropped down from where they were still cupping Eddie’s jaw. “Get up, okay? Get up.” 

For a moment, Eddie and Richie just breathed, in-out, into each other’s space. And then eventually Richie nodded, sharply, and moved to crouch beside Eddie, reaching under his back and uninjured shoulder. Slowly, Eddie -- who was truly not the delicate thing that his mother had thought him to be -- stood up. 

“Okay,” Eddie said, his voice rough and high. “I’m up, Rich. Now what?” 

But it was Bill who answered that. “Now we g-get you the fuck _ out_, Eddie.” He turned nervously to look at the others; but Mike was simply smiling at him, and he didn’t have to look to know that Ben and Beverly were, too. Perhaps this was cowardly -- certainly it was foolish -- but by God, they had to _ try. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the danger of losing any impact of my own "cliffhanger", they _ are _ actually gonna kill the clown, I swear this isn't gonna be totally anticlimactic, lol. 
> 
> It may be a few days before I can post the next chapter, and then there will be at least one more, but my goal is to have this fic posted in its entirety by New Year's!


	11. The Grand Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only way out is through.

_ GET OUT? _ The voice echoed over their heads like it was coming from a dozen loudspeakers, which was stupid and impossible, but -- they were surrounded by _ something_.

_ YOU REALLY THINK YOU CAN LEAVE MY LAIR? OH, BUT YOU _ CHOSE _TO ENTER IT; TO ENTER INTO MY DOMAIN -- WHY DON’T WE ALL HAVE SOME FUN NOW? _

And as those words echoed over their heads, reality shifted; everything around them warped and changed.   
  


Bill knew there was still the ancient filth of the sewers; there had to be. But now when he looked down, there was...straw? Yes, straw...muddy and padded down, like hundreds of feet had walked it before; he raised his head and looked wildly around him.

The Losers no longer appeared to be in the sewers under Derry. They _ appeared _ to be in a carnival. Sound filled his ears without warning; calliope music, of course. Directly in front of him rose two towering wooden pillars with a sign on top cheerily announcing BOB GRAY’S FAMOUS FUNHOUSE. A smaller plaque dangled from the sign and read, _ Enter if you dare! _

“What the fuck,” Beverly said beside him, her voice high with stress. “Oh God Bill what’s that --”

Bill’s mind was reeling, and he could not speak; he was suddenly very tired of impossible things. _ Hethrustshisfistsagainsttheposts _ \--

From behind him, Mike said grimly, “It’s not going to just let us out. Not after we hurt it like that. It’s fighting mad.” 

“You mean after _ Eddie _ hurt it.” That was Richie, and he sounded like shit -- Bill gave him a critical look-over, but the only blood on him seemed to be Eddie’s, on his hands and arms. “We have to get him out of here, you guys said --” 

“I’m --” Eddie said, weakly. 

“I swear to God Eds if you say you’re fine --” 

And it was true that Eddie did not look fine. He did not look good at all. His face was pale and getting paler, and he seemed to be shivering, despite the sheen of sweat on his forehead. His arm was not bleeding anymore, but the stained gauze over the jagged, angry bite was still horrid to look at, and Bill thought it was impressive that Eddie was still standing, even with Ben and Richie supporting him. 

“Fuck this,” Richie said, and now he sounded close to tears. “Fuck this stupid clown, I’m fucking tired of this shit..we gotta get out, Mike, Bev, you know --”

“Richie,” Beverly said. “I know, okay, I know, but --” She raised an arm at the wooden contraption -- “I mean…”

“Beverly’s right,” Mike said. He sounded a little out of breath now that Bill thought about it, and he was heavily favoring his injured leg. Maybe, Bill thought, in a state that perhaps felt like some approaching delirium, they would have _ two _ members of their party bleed out in the sewers. 

“The only way out,” Mike was saying, “Is through.” 

“It’s a maze,” Ben said, quietly, and Richie let out a mean laugh beside him. 

“No shit, Sherlock, of course it’s a fucking maze and of course it’s fucking clown-themed --” suddenly he was yelling towards the ceiling overhead that they could no longer see. “HEY! We know you’re not actually a _ clown, _ Bozo, just some sort of ALIEN FREAK --” 

“Rich, shut up,” Eddie said quietly, and Richie did. 

“We’re all scared, Richie,” Mike said, and his voice was not unkind. “You stay with Eddie, okay, and let us know if he starts bleeding again. Ben, could you...give me a hand?” Ben nodded, and came forward to wrap a steady hand around Mike’s shoulders. 

“Bill,” Mike said. “Will you lead the way?”

“Shouldn’t it be Eddie?” Beverly said. “I mean, no offense, Bill.”

“N-none taken.” 

They looked at Eddie, but he was shaking his tired bloodied head. “I can’t...not through an illusion. When we get out, yeah, I can…”

“_If _ we get out,” Richie said, bitterly. His knuckles were white with the force of his grip on Eddie’s coat. 

An unfortunate note to begin on, but no one else knew what to say. Everyone kept sneaking little glances at Eddie, waiting for him to keel over probably, but he was on his feet -- albeit unsteadily; he had dry-swallowed some the pain pills he still had on him, and his thin lips were pressed in a tight determined line. He and Richie took a shared step forward, and Mike and Ben did the same…Bill looked down at Beverly by his side. Her face was pinched and smeared with grime, but there was still some ember of intense passion in her hard eyes. If Beverly ever gave up, Bill thought privately to himself, they’d truly be fucked.

Bill Denbrough steeled himself and stepped forward through the wooden gate. He was too old for this, but also not wise enough. They would just have to get through anyway.

They walked through the wooden doors and straight into a game room. Clown pop-ups lined each wall, the grinning doll-faces of the targets laughing at them, as the calliope music rose to a cresting crescendo. 

“Step right up!” A voice, that did not quite sound like Pennywise, echoed out of a tinny speaker. 

“This can’t be real,” Ben said, and his voice sounded suddenly just like it did when he was a kid. “I mean, it’s an illusion -- but why --”

With an annoyed huff, Richie grabbed one of the little throwing balls and lobbed it at the target. Like a real carnival game, it was near-impossible -- his ball bounced off the edge, and he yelled in annoyance. 

Beverly scooped up the ball. “Here, Rich,” she said steadily, and she pinged the target with an easy throw. When she did, the wooden clown exploded into a spray of splinters, and for a moment the calliope music lurched in a way that could be either hopeful, or very bad.

“Still our Bevvie Oakley, I guess,” Richie said. He sounded out of breath, perhaps from the effort of keeping Eddie upright. “C’mon. Let’s get out of this shithole.”

“Wait,” Ben heard Beverly say it just as he did. She smiled at him.

“Do you think it might be some sort of game?” She gestured at the destroyed clown. “Should we at least _ try _ to win?” 

“Why would it make a game it knows it can lose?” 

“I mean,” Beverly said, scooping up another ball. “We _ shouldn’t _ have been able to hurt a thing like It with a silver slug. But we _ did. _” She threw the ball, it flew as true as the first, and another clown shattered. 

“I think she’s right,” Eddie said, unexpectedly. He slid away from Richie’s side and picked up a large wooden hammer on the next game over. He turned back towards Richie, and Ben thought his grin was genuine despite the pallor of his face. “I mean --” he slammed the hammer on the pad and the bell marking the top rang shrilly and then kept ringing until it reached a shrill point that had Mike clapping his hands over his ears and Ben wincing behind him. As it faded, though, the bell cracked, the gleam going out of it, and when Eddie pressed his hand at the pad again, there was no reaction.

He laughed. “It’s broken now. We already _ hurt _ it. Let’s finish it off.” 

Beverly turned questioning eyes towards the rest of them. Ben nodded. “I’m with you, Bev,” he said. Her mouth twitched up in a tiny smile. 

Beside Ben, Mike said quietly, “We're here anyway. Might as well take as many wooden clowns with us as we can, right?” 

Richie groaned. “I hate all you people,” he said, and then he grabbed another ball and slammed it right-on-target.

“Beginners luck,” he said through gritted teeth as the clown shattered. Then he saw that Eddie had gone ahead to the next room, and hurried to join him. 

“G-guess he’s our luh-leader again,” Bill said, and Beverly laughed, hooking her arm around Bill’s. Once upon a time Ben would’ve felt some anxiety and jealousy over that, but there was now only a reassuring fondness. He and Mike followed after them.

The next room over was like walking into a minefield; the entire room consisted of those chaotic, delightful games, where little toys or dolls popped up and the player was meant to smash them with a mallet. 

“Oh, I always liked _ this _ one,” Richie said, grabbing a mallet with emotion high in his voice, and Bill called “B-be careful!” as Richie started rampaging down the center of the floor, shattering everything in his path, despite how impossibly fast they were appearing and disappearing. Ben and Beverly grabbed mallets and started after him; Bill saw, however, that Mike and Eddie both seemed instead to be distracted by a large booth in one dark corner. 

It was a fortune teller's booth; one of those ones with a large animatronic figure, that took your money and spat out a slip of paper. The figure was a clown, of course, but he had on a wizard’s cape and a witch’s hat. They had not yet touched it, but Bill could’ve sworn he saw its painted eyes move. 

None of them had any change on them; Eddie pulled a pill out of his pocket and dropped it in the slot. The machine took it; rattled ominously; and eventually produced their paper.

“I’m not sure we should look at that,” Mike said, uneasily, but Eddie grabbed it.

“Don’t be scared of it, Mike,” Eddie said, softly. He peered at the paper. 

On one side it read, _ Heed the advice of your elders, and don’t get in over your head. _ On the other side it said, _ Your lucky number is: 7! _The seven was bolded and circled.

Eddie scoffed. “You didn’t kill Stan,” he told the figure. “We’re still seven.” 

He’d only put in one pill, but the machine rattled again. This time, the little slip only had one message on it, in sloppy red ink: _YOU’LL DIE IF YOU TRY. _

The chaos of noise that had been surrounding them seemed to die off; when they turned, Beverly, Ben and Richie were panting, and the room was clear. There was still no exit to be seen.

“Out of the way, Eddie,” Richie said, grimly, still clutching the mallet. “I’m gonna smash the shit out of that thing, too.” 

“Rich --” Bill started to say, but it was too late -- Richie had smashed the head clean off the wooden fortune teller. Around them, the calliope music lurched again, then again -- then finally stopped.

“Good fucking riddance!” Richie called. He let the mallet slip out of his hands. “That it?” He called up at the ceiling. 

The decapitated clown raised its hand, then dropped it, its fingers pointed directly at a door that they all could’ve sworn was not there when they entered. 

Eddie was closest. He frowned at it, tired of the tricks and destruction, and headed out of the door. 

  
“Eds,” Richie said, jogging up after Eddie, still breathless. “Slow down, are you okay?” 

Eddie shrugged. “Those pain meds I took are working, Rich. I don’t feel it so much anymore.” 

“But that’s --” Richie seemed innately offended by that. It was annoying. “Eddie that’s -- I mean it nearly bit off your _ arm_.” 

“Maybe I want revenge, then.” 

“You sound fucking crazy! How strong are those pills, huh?” 

“Beep-beep, Rich,” Eddie said, frowning as his pushed his way through the black fabric that blocked the doorway. He stepped out onto something that probably would’ve terrified his eleven-year-old self, and stumbled slightly. 

“Eds?” Richie’s worried voice came up behind him again. “Oh, _ ugh _ \--” 

They were standing on one of the tilted platforms with the spinning tunnel, designed to get you off your balance, and it was working -- after all this was a creation of the beast, so maybe it really _ was _ moving -- as soon as Eddie thought that, Bill and Beverly stepped up behind him, and he could have sworn that when they did, the platform lurched wildly. 

“Fuck!” Beverly said.

“Seconded,” Richie said. Eddie ignored them both, and gripped the rail. 

“It’s not that long, you guys,” he said. “We just have to make it across.” His knuckles clenched, visibly, when Mike and Ben arrived and the bridge shook again. _ And then who knows what we’ll face on the other side. _

Perhaps it was the adrenaline, or the lack of sleep, or yes, the medication -- but whatever it was had prompted Eddie into a strange state of...while it was certainly not calmness, it was some form of acceptance. If the monster was going to pretend to be a clown now, then alright -- he could fight the clown. Behind him, he could hear Richie’s breath coming out in short huffs, and Eddie wanted to tell him to calm down, but he didn’t know how to make Richie understand. He stepped forward, and Richie said, “Eds -- let me --” and he let Richie take his arm, just in case it made Richie settle.

It seemed, to, actually. That would’ve perhaps interested him if his tired mind hadn’t been buzzing full with tension. He made it to another felt door, and pushed through it, Richie’s breath hot on his neck, Richie’s hands tight around his elbow. 

They stood in front of a narrow door. There was a sign on it that read _ STEP RIGHT UP! ONE AT A TIME, PLEASE. WELCOME TO THE FABULOUS HALL OF MIRRORS. WHAT WILL YOU SEE TONIGHT? _

“I really, really, hate this,” Richie said quietly. “Let me go first, Eds.” 

“Rich --”

“Please?” 

Eddie sighed, and nodded. Richie stepped forward into the doorway just as the rest of their group made it off the bridge. 

“R-Richie --” Richie turned at Bill’s concerned voice, so all of them saw his face, the moment the door slammed shut on him.

“Fuck!” Beverly yelped, and she ran forward, tugging the door. It opened for her easily; but when it did, Richie was nowhere to be seen.

“I don’t think ‘one at a time’ was a request,” Mike said. “Richie’s in there, but...we won’t be able to see him right now.” 

“Yeah, because it’s a fucking trap!” Beverly said. She glanced up at Bill. “I’m going in.” 

“I-I don’t think w-we have a choice,” Bill said, and then Beverly stepped through. The door slamming shut behind her was still jarring even when they all expected it. 

One by one, the Losers let themselves get taken by the Hall of Mirrors. Eddie had seen it first, but he went last. Bill nodded at him, as the door pulled shut on him, and then he gently opened the door and stepped in. 

_ //Ben _

In front of Ben was a mirror. _ Well, of course. _ As soon as the door had closed behind him, what had seemed like a long hall had shrunk dramatically; he was now standing in a space no bigger than a closet -- made him feel a little claustrophobic. And it meant that he could not avoid looking at the mirror right in front of him.

The reflection in the mirror was not correct. It was a trick-house, after all.

“Hi,” the child in the mirror said to him.

For a long moment, Ben could not speak. Then he said, “Hi.” 

“I’m Ben,” the little boy said. “Benjamin Hanscom.” 

“I know,” Ben said.

“What? How do you know?” Little Ben tilted his head at one of the many things about the world he had let to learn but was eager to find out. 

“Because I’m _ you_,” Ben tried to tell him. 

Little Ben looked at him steadily. “No, you aren’t.” 

There was something inside of Ben that was shattering into little pieces; he was not sure why. “Yes I _ am_,” he said, and he crouched down to be closer to little Ben’s eye level. “I can prove it. Do you remember the poem we wrote?” 

“No,” little Ben said, with a sudden frantic blush. “I didn’t write any poem. That would be silly. No girl would wanna read that.” 

“One girl would,” Ben said, gently. “But even if she hadn’t, it still would’ve been okay that you wrote it. It still would’ve been okay that you loved her.”

“I don’t know anything about love.” 

“Yes, you do.” What was love but looking and waiting and warm thoughts and gentle touches and still wanting her after nearly thirty years? 

Little Ben had tears welling up in his eyes, now. Ben was not a crier. It hurt to watch. 

“Not me,” he said. “I’d -- never. I don’t think you’re really me.” 

The thing that was shattering surely was his heart. “I’m sorry,” Ben said._ I’m sorry I whittled myself down to something you don’t even recognize, and for what? _

_ I don’t regret it nearly as much as I know I should -- _

_ Shit kid I am sorry -- _

He was real sorry but in the end that wasn’t enough. Ben wanted to absolve that sad scared little kid but he didn’t fucking know how and he had to get out, get his friends -- he raised one leg and slammed his booted foot into the mirror. It shattered, but none of the glass hit him. Small mercies.

_ //Bill _

He was in the mirror. Little Bill Denbrough with his flop of reddish hair and his shoulders, broad for a little kid sure but charmingly small, now. 

Young Bill looked at his older self with piercing, searching eyes.

“Are you me?”

“Yup,” Bill said, and then he rubbed sort of embarrassedly at his bald head. 

“Okay,” little Bill said, and of course, Bill should know he didn’t give a toss about Bill’s looks when he had the answers right in front of him. “Did we do it? Duh-did (_ and here comes the stutter, now, it got worse that summer just as it had this time in a matter of mere days) _ d-did you f-find Georgie’s killer?” 

“Yeah,” Bill said. “And it’s -- ah-all those s-scary things you thought of...you were r-right.”

“I _ knew _ it! I did!”

“You d-did.” 

“Was I right about...you know, the silver slugs? Did they work? D-did you kill It?”

“No,” said Bill, who was growing progressively angrier. “But I’m about to.” 

And he felt a growing confidence, growing with that anger -- if It wasn’t scared of them, why bother? Why separate them, why punish them with shadows of their young selves, unless it was just trying to buy itself some time because it was weak and scared and maybe already dying from Eddie’s poison?

He was shattered out of his thoughts by a familiar voice.

“You’re really gonna kill it?”

It was Georgie. Of course it was Georgie. It was a wonder that he hadn’t seen him yet. Still, for a long moment Bill couldn’t breath; the picture of Georgie that Mike had found at the scene of a crime was the first time Bill had looked at Georgie’s face in years, and that was nothing compared to hearing his voice. 

“Y-yeah, Georgie,” he said around the lump in his throat. He crouched down so he could look Georgie in his baby-blue eyes.

Georgie frowned at him. “How come you’re gonna kill it, but you couldn’t protect me, Billy?” 

Mike had called him Billy, too. No one had, since Derry. Bill felt a tear well up in one eye, and wiped at it, angrily. 

“I t-tried, Juh-juh --”

“Why?”

“I s-said I truh-_ tried_, Georgie, b-but I was just a k-kid --”

“Why’d you do it, Billy?” little Georgie asked, like he wasn’t hearing it. “Why’d you let me die?”

Suddenly, and with great feeling, Bill Denbrough had had _ enough. _ He was crying, yeah, but he was mad, too -- mad on behalf of his young self, who had been so young and so sad and who was sick in bed when his baby brother died, and it _ wasn’t his fucking fault. _

“Don’t ask me that, you sick fuck,” he said. “Stop selling me that shit! I didn’t kill him! YOU did! And I don’t KNOW why you did it!” And he took all of that rage and terror and most of all the overwhelming _ grief _ and he threw himself through the mirror, smashing it to bits.

_ //Mike _

“I’m scared,” said the little boy in the mirror.

“I know,” Mike said. His heart was an overwhelming _ THUMP-THUMP _ in his chest; he could not even feel the pain of his thigh anymore; so much was the noise and anxious fear. 

“I don’t wanna be scared,” little Mike said. He was crying, which was hard to look at. “You’re me, aren’t you? Are you still scared?”

Any adult could’ve seen at his tired face and known the answer to that, Mike thought. Unfortunately. 

“Yes,” he said. “The world is scary, Mikey.”

“Mommy calls me that,” little Mike informed him, tearfully.

“I know,” Mike said. He was maybe getting a little choked up himself, now. “Your friends will, too.” _ There will be people who you love so much, and you will love them fit to bursting, and no one will ever replace your parents but they’re your family, too. _

“If you have them, then why --”

“You want to think that love solves everything,” Mike said, and he knelt so he could look himself in the eye. “It won’t. _ I’m sorry. _ But you have to hold onto that love anyway.”

“I don’t understand,” little Mike said. And that was the truly heartbreaking thing -- even if this was real and not a cheap trick, even if he had a time machine -- there was nothing he could tell his younger self that he could comprehend before he experienced it for himself. 

“I know, Mikey. One day you will, though.”

“But...growing up is scary, too.”

_ Hell yeah it is. _ “I know. But you have to do that anyway, too.” 

Little Mike looked up at him with wide, dark eyes, wet with tears. 

“I’m sorry,” Mike said again, and then he surged to his full height, ignoring the pain in his leg. He turned bodily away from himself, and smashed through the mirror with his back.

_ //Richie _

“That’s not my reflection,” little Richie Tozier said, wrinkling his nose doubtfully. “Who are you?” 

“I’m you, kid,” Richie said, easily. He was ignoring the pounding of his heart and the aching of his arm and his keen anxiety over Eddie’s whereabouts. (He knew Eddie was still out there, because his arm was still throbbing -- God, how did anyone think soul-marks were some sort of _ evolutionary adaptation_, this was awful --) “You, all grown up.” 

Little Richie looked at him, critically. “Really?”

Richie laughed despite himself. “Yeah, man. I know the contacts and the braces changed our look, but it’s still me.” 

Little Richie quirked a doubtful eyebrow. “If yer _ really _ me, big guy, tell me something only _ we _ know.” 

_ Big guy! _ Christ, he was priceless as a kid. Too bad _ that _ was the only thing he could think of. 

“You’ve got a soulmate,” Richie said. 

Little Richie turned a furious shade of red. He pouted and his buck teeth poked over his lower lip. It was honestly, Richie thought -- with a kindness towards himself that was perhaps too rare -- kind of cute. 

“No I don’t,” his younger self said, unconvincingly. 

Richie rolled his eyes, and performed the familiar motion, dipping down his trousers just enough so that you could see the little silver mark. 

“Oh, shit,” little Richie said.

“Yeah. Basically.”

And now little Richie was staring up at him, with some sort of desperate hope. 

“Does he know?” he said. “Did you finally tell him?”

Achingly, in that moment, Richie wanted very much to lie. 

“Sorry,” he said instead. “Sorry, kid.” 

Little Richie looked suddenly scared._ 1959 in a fucking nutshell, _ Richie thought.

“He doesn’t -- he doesn’t know? But he -- you --”

There was a beat of pained silence; they both waited it out.

“I love him,” little Richie said, and Richie felt tears prick at his eyes. God, he was tired of crying. 

“You still do,” he said. _ And that was what was really and truly terrifying; the girlfriends that he’d been happy with and the boyfriends that he’d tried his best with -- none of that was fake but Jesus Christ this might be different in a way that he had never been ready for -- _

“Then why --” 

_ Derry will still kill you for that crime. _ “The world hasn’t got much kinder,” Richie said. “Sorry, Rich.” 

“No you _ aren’t! _” little Richie cried, his face flushed a furious red. “You -- Eds -- how are you still scared, grown-ups are supposed to be brave --” 

_ Yeah, you were waiting for _ me _ to come and change it all, but joke’s on you, kid, I’m still _ you _ \-- _

“It ain’t over till it’s over,” Richie said, as steady as he could (which was admittedly not very). “Sorry, kid. We’re still waiting, I guess. We got time.”_ Not much time, though. _

And then he slammed his elbow -- the elbow of his left arm, the arm that hurt wildly with a pain that was not his own -- and let it shatter on him, little shards of glass cutting tiny slivers into his hands and face.   
  


_ //Beverly _

Intellectually, Beverly was aware that when she was eleven years old, she had really been just a kid. Just a scared little kid.

It was another thing entirely to actually _ see _ it. 

“Who are you?” little Beverly asked. She was tall for her age, but gangly, and her reddish hair was tied back in a loose, tangled ponytail. Her chest was flat; her limbs awkward. The jeans she was wearing had flowery detailing on their ankles, that she’d done herself, sewing until her fingers were pricked and bleeding. 

“I’m you,” Beverly said, simply. 

“Oh,” Little Bev said, doubtfully. “Well, you’re still a stranger, and I’m not supposed to…” she trailed off. “Where’s Daddy?” 

Beverly opened her mouth to tell herself that their father wasn’t there (_because he was dead _), but as she did, Al Marsh appeared in the mirror beside her younger self. 

“Oh, Beverly,” he said. “What’s going on here?”

“Nothing,” both Beverlys said in unison. The elder version winced. 

“You don’t have to listen to him,” Beverly said, gently. She pressed her hand against the glass pane and watched at the warped reflection of her younger self did the same. There was a lurid bruise on her wrist; her skin didn’t bruise quite as easy nowadays or maybe Tom was just better at knowing where to hit.

“You’ll go away soon,” she promised little Bev. “You won’t see Daddy for a long long time.” 

“But…”

“I know,” Beverly said and God she was tired and covered in muck and they were so obviously in a trap so why did she want to cry and scream? “I know you love him. But it’s okay that you hate him, too.” 

“I don’t!” Little Beverly was startled and scared. “I don’t! I never!”

“One day you’ll be able to say it.” _ A long fucking time from now, shit, and after other men -- _

“I’m sorry,” Beverly told her younger self. “I have to go now. You’re tough and you’ll make it.” She dropped her hand from the glass and smiled, wiping at the stray tear that had found its way down her cheek. 

“Go _ where? _” Little Bev asked. She was curious through her tears.

“To my friends,” Beverly said, simply, and her smile turned into a grin. “You know -- the ones Daddy doesn’t like us playing with? They’re in trouble. I gotta go save them.” 

That made little Bev laugh with joy. She’d been saved by the Losers all that summer. “Well, okay,” she said. “Good luck.” 

_ Yeah I’ll fucking need it _ \-- “Bye, kiddo,” Beverly said, “You’ll see me again, in about thirty years.” And she wrapped her jacket around her hand and slammed it into the glass, shattering it. 

_ //Eddie _

Looking at himself in the mirror was unpleasant. As a child he had been small _(sickly)_ with thin _(delicate) _ wrists and ankles. His young face was pinched in a familiar expression; it was one he still saw all the time. 

“You’re me, aren’t you?” Little Eddie said. “I can tell ‘cause we still look the same. Mr, you don’t look so good.” 

“I know,” Eddie said, peevishly; it was hard to be upset by this bullshit from his own damn self. That was everyday-shit. What did the monster know about that, know about living with your own scared-tired-pathetic self? 

Little Eddie’s eyes went wide. “I thought we’d change when we grew up. I thought we’d be better. I thought we’d run away.” 

“I tried,” Eddie said. His heart was going worryingly fast in his chest, now. Soon he might start gasping, and he had no aspirator anymore…

“I tried,” he said again. “Really I did…” But, well -- maybe his mother had been right, in one aspect -- that he needed to be protected from himself.

“I saved you,” Myra said, because suddenly she was there, towering over his childhood self. “Didn’t I, Eddie? I _ did_. I _ love _ you.” 

“I loved you too, Myra,” Eddie said, earnestly. He wished that this was the real Myra, because she deserved to know, too…”I’m sorry, Marty,” he said. “It’s just we’re bad for each other. I’m...you can’t fix the thing that I am.” 

“What?” Myra said. Her eyes went the size of dinner saucers and wet tears glistened in them. “Eddie, what are you saying?”

“I never shoulda married you, Myra,” and he said it as kindly and softly as his could even though it was just a trick. He was looking at her face and he felt it regardless. “I don’t regret it but I should’ve been braver, and I’m sorry.”

“You’re leaving me?” She wailed, tugging and twisting the fabric of her nightgown.

“Yes,” Eddie said, “I am.” 

Myra vanished, as suddenly as she’d appeared. Little Eddie stared up at his adult self with huge eyes. 

“That’s my wife?” he said. His high, young voice sounded close to tears. “You married her?”

Eddie wished that he was real, too, so that he could touch him on the shoulder. Maybe hug him.

“I’m sorry, Eds,” he said to the little boy in the mirror. 

Little Eddie did start to cry at that. “Don’t call me Eds!” he cried. “I’m not -- that’s not -- are you saying I never grow out of it?” 

_ No, you never do. You Don’t Think About It but it doesn’t go away. _ “I’m sorry,” Eddie said again. 

“Jesus, Eds.” Another voice now, and his blood ran cold, because -- what -- _ what? _

Richie was in the mirror. _ Richie was in the mirror, next to his younger self, why was Richie in his mirror? _

“This is a whole mess,” Richie said, his voice light. The apparition of his wife had not touched his younger self, but Richie bent down and laid a kindly hand on Eddie’s shoulder.

“Chin up, kid,” he said. “It’s not _ all _bad. Well. Probably it isn’t!” he grinned at Eddie through the glass pane. 

“Well?” Richie said. “Is it?”

“Why are you _ here? _ ” Eddie said, helplessly. “You’re not -- get _ out! _”

“Oh,” said Richie, “but I’m not _ really _ here, am I? It’s just that I’m always in your head. Always have been.” 

Eddie did not know what to to stay to that; after all, it was true. 

Richie took a step forward. Then another. Little Eddie wailed, at being left behind.

Richie stepped forward and out of the mirror. 

“No,” Eddie said. He had an idea, dimly, that he should shatter the mirror, that that would be the way out, but how could he do that now when Richie was standing in front of him in flesh and blood? 

“You’re not here,” Eddie said. “You have your own mirror and you’re not --”

“Nah,” Richie said, and he placed his hands on Eddie’s shoulder like he had with the child in the mirror except that this time it _ hurt _ \-- “I’m always here. Always with you, Eds.” He tapped a finger to Eddie’s cheek. “Isn’t that right?”

“No --” Eddie tried to say, but in front of him, Pennywise was grinning. He laughed with Richie’s face. 

“Come here, little one!” It said. “Come with Bobbie Gray into the deadlights. It’s _ free _ and you won’t have to think anymore!” 

“NO --” Eddie yelled, and he tried to pull himself back and away, but it was too late, _ too late_, and the creature had grabbed him with terrible, impossible talons and he opened his eyes and he _ saw the lights _ and then Eddie Kasprak stopped remembering, for a time. 

*

Beverly came back to herself outside of the Hall of Mirrors. She spun wildly in a circle, but there were no immediate threats that she could see. It seemed -- impossibly -- that she was standing outside of a building; the hall behind her and a _ HOUSE OF HORRORS_, according to the sign, in front of her.

“Guys?” She said, because she couldn’t see anyone -- “_Guys! _ Bill? Ben?” 

Out of the darkness, Mike came stumbling towards her. 

“Mike!” She said, alarmed. She got her hands under him and got him upright; he was panting slightly and there were some blood spots on the gauze on his leg. “You okay?”

“I’ve been better,” he said, smiling wryly at her. “‘The way out is through’ indeed, huh?”

“You smashed it, too?”

“Yeah. Hope the others think to try that, too.” 

“_Shit!” _

Well, there’s one. It was Richie, of course; he stumbled out of the darkness towards them, and Beverly saw that there were little flecks of red on his hands.

“You okay, Rich?”

“I’m fine,” he said. Admittedly, he looked more grouchy than hurt. “Just some glass. Fuck this, man. Where’s Eddie?” 

“Everyone’s showing up as they break their mirrors,” Mike said. “I’m sure he’ll be along shortly.” 

Richie nodded, and then watched the black with an unnerving intensity. Next out, though, was Bill, who had an angry set to his eyes.

“What did you see, Big Bill?” Beverly asked. 

“Juh-Georgie,” Bill said. “I’m _ t-tired _ of this.” 

“What the big man said,” Richie said. He had sat down on the dirty straw floor and kept grabbing vaguely at his arm -- maybe the glass had cut him there. 

Beverly opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, Ben emerged. He was crying, and she ran towards him. 

“Ben! Ben, are you okay?” 

He blinked down at her. “Yeah, I’m -- I’m fine, Beverly, I --” he bit his lip and looked down. “I don’t even know why I’m crying,” he said, and wiped at his face.

“It’s okay,” she said -- uselessly, probably, but what else was she supposed to say? “We all saw some dark shit in there.” 

He smiled, and she reached up to swipe her thumb across his tear-spotted cheek, smiling back at him.

“Alright, seriously, where’s Eddie?” came Richie’s voice.

Mike was sitting too, elevating his bad leg; Bill was crouched beside him. Ben and Beverly turned towards them, expectantly. 

Mike looked nervous. “Maybe he’s having trouble breaking the mirror because of his arm.”

Richie scoffed. “You all saw the way he slammed that hammer. He should _ be _here by now.” 

Beverly didn’t know what to say to that; in truth, she thought Richie was probably right. 

The speaker’s overhead of them crackled to life. “_And perhaps he should be, indeed! _ ” The buzzing not-quite-Pennywise voice came. “_So where is he? Where is our little Eddie? Did he finally run along home to mamma?” _

Richie scrambled to his feet. “You motherfucker, you have him!”

The speaker crackled again, but this time when the voice came again, it came from all around: _ YES, _ it said. _ I DO. _

_ AND THE FUNNY THING IS, _ the voice said, _ THE _ REALLY _ FUNNY THING IS, HE’S ALREADY DEAD! _

There was a stunned silence. “No --” Richie said, his voice choked up, “No -- fuck -- he’s_ not _ \--” 

_ YES HE IS. WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE? _

“No --” 

Richie was the only one talking; maybe the only one brave enough? 

_ I WILL SHOW YOU, LITTLE THING. _

And then slowly, from the ceiling (the ceiling that they could not even _ see)_, a web lowered a figure down, wrapped as it was in the webbing. 

_ HERE IS YOUR FRIEND. HE SIMPLY WAS NOT STRONG ENOUGH TO STAND UP TO HIMSELF. _

It was Eddie. He was wrapped head-to-toe in spider sinew, except for a small clearing in the webbing, through which you could see his face. That pale, small face; handsome but worn-thin; the cheekbones in sharp relief against his thin lips, which were blue. He was not breathing, and his eyes were half-open and sightless. His arm, pressed tight against his body, was blood-soaked and bent wrong. 

“NO!” Beverly screamed, at the same time that Ben called out, “_Eddie!” _

Mike’s face felt numb. He didn’t say a word; he could not. He saw Bill, stumbling back, mouth opening and closing wordlessly; Richie was deathly silent and still. Then, quietly and terrifyingly, Richie collapsed, his legs giving out from underneath him. 

A man walked out of the doorway to the horror-house. They looked at him, blearily -- anything to look away from Eddie -- (but Mike’s eyes kept being drawn back, sneaking glances at him; his lips were still blue, each and every time he looked).

The man was not-quite Pennywise. He smiled. It was Bob Gray, Mike realized will a dull not-wonder. He was dressed in the way that men at the turn of the 19th century might’ve dressed; his face was unremarkable; his eyes were blue, not gold or red or any other unnatural color. 

“There’s more horrible things where that comes from,” he said, smiling. “Won’t you step inside?” 

“Fuck you!” Beverly cried; she ran over towards Eddie and started ripping at the webbing on him, trying to get him down.

“I wouldn’t bother,” Bob Gray said with a slow serenity. “He’s dead, darling. And you’ll die too, without your little compass.” He grinned; it was perhaps a half-inch too wide.

“Help me!” Beverly said, ignoring him. Bill came forward, and started tearing at the webbing, too. Ben knelt beside Richie, who was still frozen, and said something soft and gentle into his ear. 

_ C’mon, man, _ move_, you owe Eddie this... _ Mike took a step forward, and then another, and then he was in front of Eddie too, reaching to pull at the sticky mess entrapping him. Up close, Eddie’s sightless eyes were so damn unnerving that he wanted more than ever to pull away; there was a filmy quality developing to them that made Mike want to scream or cry or run. This _ couldn’t _ be Eddie; by God, he was so alive -- sure he was sort of pale, certainly worn-out, but -- he was just -- he was just fundamentally _ Eddie. _

“He’s not,” Richie said, and his voice cut through their quiet desperate noises like a knife, despite how shattered it sounded. “Guys, he’s not dead --” 

“Richie,” Beverly said, “Honey. He’s --”

“I’m telling you he’s fucking _ not! _”

“R-Rich,” Bill said, his hand on Beverly’s shoulder, “Luh-look at h-him --” 

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” Richie was hunched over now, on his hands and knees, and he was crying -- (Mike was struck by it suddenly, by the fact that Richie in his public life was certainly not the kind for this sort of emotional display, and he didn’t know that that was good but surely this desperate sobbing could not be good either, and Richie’s facade was truly shattered) -- 

“I’m fucking telling you, Bill,” Richie said, “he’s not dead.” 

“Richie,” Ben said, “Touch him. He’s cold.” And somehow, that was the cruelest thing that any of them had said. Mike wanted to say, _ No, don’t -- _but Richie reached out and he grabbed Eddie’s hand.

It was limp in his grip, and Mike knew from his own touch that yes, it was cold. Richie gave another horrible choking sob. 

“I know I sound fucking crazy,” Richie said, and he kept holding onto Eddie’s cold limp flesh, “But it’s a fucking trick, you guys -- Eds -- he --” 

_ Don’t do this Rich, Jesus Christ, if you break then who -- _

“He’s alive,_ I know how it sounds _but --” Richie looked up and wildly around; for a moment he stared directly at Mike, his eyes terrified behind the cracked glasses. He dropped Eddie’s hand to grip at his own shoulder.

He shifted his gaze; to the body and then to Beverly, specifically.

“Bev,” he said. “Bevvie. Do you -- do you remember something that I told you when we were both just kids?”   
  
  


For a long moment Beverly had no idea what the Hell Richie was talking about. Eddie was lying on the ground beneath her and he was fucking dead and she wanted half to rip his murderer to shreds and half to run away screaming. 

And then, she _ remembered. _

She remembered being eleven years old and not having the context to understand what she was being told; she remembered a coming-out scene before she really understood that people could be that way. She had no vision of Richie’s possible futures then; now she did, but they were largely negative; visions painted by Tom, by her father, by every stupid magazine cover she saw out of the corner of her eye -- 

But that wasn’t what was important. What was important was that Richie had told her that he was soulmates with Eddie. And if that was true --

If that was true then he could feel the pain of Eddie’s arm. 

All of them had felt it; a cracking slice up their upper arm; the line of the broken bone or the bloody punctures from the teeth --

And if someone was soulmates with Eddie then they would still feel that. And Richie was clutching his arm. 

He looked at Beverly with desperate eyes. 

“Bevvie,” he said. “You_ know _ \-- I feel him --”

“Guys,” Beverly said, “It’s fake.” Everyone’s eyes went to her immediately, and she gritted her teeth against it. 

“Bev,” Bill said, and he said it very gently, but she thought, _ Fuck this, Richie shouldn’t hear this, _so she said, “Just listen, okay? Can you please just listen?” 

Bill stared at her with some minor shock, but he listened. 

“I --” there was no easy way to do this without outing Richie. 

Richie was still keeled over, and all she could think of was cigarette smoke, spiraling into the cool night air. 

“_Bevvie, _” he said again. “I feel it. I still feel it!”

She did not know how to answer, how to explain. She couldn’t claim that Eddie was _her_ soulmate, because he wasn’t, but -- God they had all felt the bite when it tore through Eddie, but the knowledge that one of them had kept feeling it, kept the mind-warping pain of it all, and not said a word -- 

“He’s alive,” Beverly said, because what the fuck else was she supposed to say. “Bill, Eddie’s still alive. Please -- I don’t know how to -- _ he’s alive.” _

Bill looked at her, and she looked back with all the intensity and hope of that childhood crush. “I swear it,” she said. “I swear, Bill.” 

For a long moment, Bill just looked at her, and then she saw something within him make a decision. 

“Alright,” he said, not like how he had spoken with decisive finality when they were kids, but simply in his slow adult voice. “I believe you, Beverly. Eddie’s alive.” 

Bob Gray hissed at that; stomped his feet. “He’s dead!” He said. “He’s fucking dead! Why do you deny the evidence of your own eyes?”

“Because,” Bill Denbrough said, “I r-remember you. You’re a fucking _ liar. _” 

And he _ was_. He always had been. 

“He isn’t going to wake up!”

“Yes, he is,” Bill said. He took up the hand that Richie had dropped and held it even though it was cold. He was thinking, _when we were just kids you’d all listen to me._ I think you want me to be that child again and I can’t, I wasn’t...but I still need you to_ listen. _ And _ believe. _

The was a hissing exhale. They looked up; it was Bob Gray. He was staring at them calmly, his head cocked slightly to the side and his eyes hard and intense. 

“I was_ going _ to let you out,” he said. “Let you wander off to die while I eat your little friend. But fine!” He smiled; it was perhaps even more unnerving without the grease paint. “You’re right! That little thing isn’t dead... _ yet_. But now I think I’ll just eat the whole lot of you!” 

And then, several things happened at once. Eddie sat up out of the torn webbing, gasping for breath. Bob Gray smiled too, wide, and then kept smiling. The wooden structures around them started rattling around them, collapsing. 

“Eddie!” Ben and Bill were pulling Eddie out of the webbing; Mike struggled forward and grabbed Beverly’s arm. 

“Bev,” he said, fear gripping him, “Richie --”

“Yeah,” she said, and when he let her go she grabbed at Richie’s shoulders and tried to pull her with him.

“Rich!” she gasped, and Mike wanted badly to help her but the pain in his leg was now searing, and the ground was so unsteady he was barely standing. 

“Richie!” Beverly said again, her voice raised. “You were right! He’s alive! _ Now the get the fuck up, _ the whole place is coming down!” 

_ YOU CAN RUN, BUT YOU CAN’T HIDE! _ The voice that came was _ more _ now. Mike looked at Bob Gray, and then instantly wanted to look away -- but he was frozen. The creature was in the process of discarding the body it was wearing; the flesh was peeling in thick rolls on the muscles and sinews, and then those off of the bones. The bones, red-dyed with blood; warped and bent wildly, until there were eight spread out like limbs and some tiny desperate voice in Mike’s head said _ Don’t look, Mikey! You’ll fall apart if you look! _ and he shut his eyes, tightly. 

“Oh God,” he heard Beverly say behind him. “What _ is _ It?” That was Ben. 

“D-don’t l-look!” Bill roared at all of them. “Don’t luh-look at It!” He was leaning over Eddie, whose eyes were closed, his head lolling -- he had passed out. 

All of the Losers covered their eyes, and the walls of Bob Gray’s Famous Funhouse fell down around them. 

Eddie woke up on the ground. The hard concrete of the sewers dug into his back, and it hurt. The fuzzy numbness of the pain medication was starting to fade; and his arm had become quite painful; he tried to move it, weakly, and so much as twitching his fingers made him want to throw up. 

He took a steadying breath, and then another. His throat was tight, but he wasn’t in imminent danger of wheezing. He tried to sit up, then groaned at the pain, and laid back down. 

“E-Eddie?”

“Bill,” he said, and he realized that he could see Bill’s face; his friend was illuminated by the strange glow that had filled the underground when they first went through the little door. “What...the mirror? What happened?” 

“I-it got you, man,” Bill’s hand was reaching around Eddie’s back, and he let himself get pulled up, hissing a little at the pain. “Suh-sorry,” Bill said, and Eddie tried to smile at him. 

“It took you,” Ben said, his gentle face appearing beside Bill’s in Eddie’s field of vision. “It tried to tell us you were dead, but we didn’t believe it. Well. _ Richie _ didn’t believe it. And it was like once its lie that you were dead fell apart, everything did.” 

“We’re in Its lair now. For real this time, I think,” a soft voice said, and when Eddie turned, he saw that Mike was sitting on the ground near him, his injured leg spread out in front of him. There was blood on his bandages and pant leg.

“Are you alright, Mike?” he said.

Mike smiled. “I’ll be alright if you are, Eddie.” Eddie tried to give him a smile back, but he wasn’t sure now successful that attempt was.

_ NONE OF YOU ARE GOING TO BE ALRIGHT! BECAUSE SOON YOU’LL ALL BE DEAD! _The voice echoed in their mind, and boomed from every corner.

“Don’t let it trick you again!” Bill grabbed at Mike’s hand and clung to it. “Juh-join hands! We’re stronger together!” 

“Bill --” Richie said.

“Do it! Grab hands!” 

And so they did. Perhaps they did still hear him, and trust him -- or perhaps they were just desperate. He squeezed Mike’s hand in one of his, Beverly’s small hot hand in the other. _ C’mon, think...we need strength, we need a way out... _

“Form the circle,” Mike said. “The Lucky Seven.” 

“But not Stan,” Richie said. He was holding onto Mike with one hand, and Eddie with the other. “What about Stan? We need him…” there was a panic rising in his voice, and Bill saw it on Beverly’s face, too. 

Bill closed his eyes. _ The Lucky Seven. C’mon, Stan, we need you too! _

  
*  
  


On a hospital bed in Atlanta, Stanley Uris’ eyes went wide.

“Patty,” he said, desperately, and he grabbed at her hand. And then, right in front of his eyes, his wife and the bed he was sitting on both vanished.   
  
  


*

He was no-where. That was the only conception he had of the place...it was nothingness, it was the very essence of absence. It was not dark; he could see. It was simply that there _ was _ nothing to see. 

“Patty?” he said, into the nothingness. His voice did not echo, because there was nothing for it to echo off of.   
  
  


*

Bill’s body was still sitting where it had been, in the cold and the damp; clutching Beverly and Mike. He _ knew _ that. But he did not particularly feel it, because his mind was no longer there. 

  
  


“What the Hell?” 

Bill knew that voice. He _ knew _ it, despite having heard it in its adult form only once before, in the Derry Public Library. That time, it had been a lie. This time, however…

Bill opened his eyes.

Across from him, sitting cross-legged in the nothing-space, was Stanley Uris. 

Bill drew in a shaky breath. 

“Stan?” 

  
  


It couldn’t be Bill sitting across from him, but as soon as he opened his mouth, Stan knew that it was. Bill had grown up; his hair was gone, and the width of his shoulders seemed now simply fitting, rather than deeply impressive. Still, it was him. 

“Bill?” Stan said. “Christ! Bill Denbrough? What’s happening? Where are we?” 

“I-I don’t nuh-know,” Bill said, a thoughtful look on his tired, dirtied, face. And ah, there was the stutter: it really was him. There was a cut on his face that was oozing blood through the butterfly stitches. Stan reached out, instinctively, and his hands grazed over the curve of Bill’s chin. He _ felt _ it.

“I’m here,” he said, his stomach rolling at the impossibility of it all. “I’m really here. How can I be here?” 

“_I’m _ not h-here either,” Bill said. “I’m...we’re all in the sewers under Derry again. Trying to kill It.”

Stanley’s stomach rolled again; he had to pull his hand away from Bill’s face. He touched instead the gauze wrapped around his other arm. (At least _ that _ was still there, and he did not have to look at what he had done to himself.) 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Shit, Bill, I’m sorry -- I didn’t mean to leave you --” _ Oh yes I did _“-- But how the fuck was I --” He did not know what to say.

“How are you here? How was everyone but me strong enough --” 

Bill was shaking his head. “It’s not about strength, I don’t think.” _ Bullshit it’s not. _ But then, if Bill said it…

“Where’s everyone else?”

Bill shrugged. “Still under Derry, I guess.” He closed his eyes. “Close the circle,” he said, to himself, and he reached out his arms as if clasping invisible hands. 

Stan blinked, and then when he opened his eyes again, Bill _ was _clasping hands; with Beverly and Mike. Beverly was holding onto Ben, and Mike onto Richie, who had his other hand around Eddie’s. Eddie and Ben had open hands, because they were now separated by Stan.

Stan had a headache all of a sudden, a vague throbbing in his temple, and he recognized eventually that he was crying, silently and with minimal tears but his cheeks were wet and his eyes puffy. 

The Losers opened their eyes.

“_Stanny? _” Richie said, and the childish nickname was too much; Stan’s head really did hurt and he was going to start fucking sobbing. 

“There’ll be time for a reunion later,” Bill said, gently. “I think I know where we are, now.” 

"_Where? _” Stan asked, desperately. 

“In the belly of the beast.” 

_ Very reassuring. _ Stan wiped uselessly at his eyes. 

“Everyone take h-hands.” 

Ben and Eddie looked at Stan. He gripped Ben’s large, warm hand with his good one, and then stared weakly at Eddie.

“I can’t,” he said. He didn’t _ want _ to. 

“You can,” Eddie said, gently. “Richie’s holding my bad hand.” (And Richie was, cupping Eddie’s hand with an incredible gentleness). “We won’t hurt you, Stan.” 

Stan said nothing, but he reached out, and let Eddie curl light, slender fingers around his hand. It did hurt, but only a little, and it may have been all in his head.

“Now what?” Stan said. “Bill, now what?” 

“Now,” Bill said, “We need to find It.”

All he had to do was say it, and suddenly there was a voice in everyone’s head.

_ FIND ME? _ YOU_, FIND _ ME? _ THIS IS MY HOME, LITTLE THINGS, I AM ALREADY HERE. _

Stan slammed his eyes shut.

_ SCARED TO LOOK? _

_ Yes, _ he thought, _ Of course I am, I’d rather kill myself than look at you, that’s how this works. _

_ HOW DO YOU PLAN TO KILL A THING YOU CAN’T SEE? I AM BEYOND YOUR PATHETIC HUMAN MINDS. _

“No, you’re not,” and without opening his eyes Stan knew that that was Mike speaking. “We’re here too, in your space. Weren’t expecting that, were you?”

_ A SPECK OF DUST MAY FALL WHERE IT DOES NOT INTEND. THIS MEANS NOTHING. _

“We’re a bit more than a speck, Bozo,” Richie said, and laughed. “Shit, you should stick to the clown gag, what am I supposed to call you now? I don’t know any famous spiders.” 

_ I AM NOT A SPIDER. I AM SOMETHING BEYOND. _

“Looked like a spider to _ me_,” Beverly muttered, and beside her, Ben chuckled.

There was, perhaps, a frustrated quality to the monster’s thought-voice when it came again. 

_ I AM THE EATER OF WORLDS. _

“What worlds?” Eddie said. “Not this one. You can’t even kill seven kids from Maine.” 

“Eds gets off A Good One!” Richie crowed. Stan was not yet ready to open his eyes, but he smiled, a little. 

_ I AM OLDER THAN YOU CAN EVEN COMPREHEND. _

“Time for you to be moving on, then, isn’t it?” Ben said, breezily. “You can’t even keep up with us anymore.” His hand was warm with sweat, betraying his nerves, but his grip was still strong. 

_ I AM THE EATER OF WORLDS AND I WILL EAT _YOU. 

“Enough of that, now,” Bill said. “You’ve had your last meal, I think.” 

_ BE SILENT, LITTLE THING. I AM ETERNAL; YOU CANNOT TOUCH ME. _

But there was some quality to its voice...it sounded nearly scared. How could this impossible being be _ scared? _ Of _ them? _

Stanley Uris opened his eyes.

“You are not eternal,” he said to the beast. “You’re just a murderer, just another sick bastard that hurts kids, and who knows why, but _ you are not eternal. _” 

“What he said!” Richie said. Now that Stan had his eyes open, he saw that Richie was grinning; that big goofy smile he had when they were kids and he was the purveyor of Voices and bad jokes. 

“How’s that taste?” Beverly asked. “We’re not fucking scared of you.” 

And all of a sudden, he wasn’t. That was impossible (-- as impossible as _ It _ was --), but it was also true. That was what Patty had said, in all of her kind and simple wisdom: _ Did someone hurt you? _ and someone had. But he didn’t have to be scared of it. 

“Robins,” Stanley said. “Gray egrets. Scarlet tanagers.” He felt a sudden surge off some complex mix of emotion; perhaps hope, or even joy. “Grackles! Chickadees!”

_ YOU CANNOT SCARE ME WITH THE NAMES OF BIRDS. _

He ignored it. “_Those are things that exist. _ They’re real and they’re part of the earth and they have a purpose. You aren’t and you _ don’t_.” As he said it, he felt some strange power, buzzing through their circle -- everyone was believing him, everyone was keeping his birds -- those beautiful little creatures that he hadn’t thought of in years but now they were there for him, when he needed them, because he _ knew _ that they were real and they helped -- in their hearts. They were believing, too. 

_ I EXIST. _

“But should you?” Stanley asked that question to the beast, but also he asked it to the universe; perhaps he even asked it to God.

_ I TIRE OF THIS, _ the monster said, as if the tremor in its mind-voice wasn’t obvious. _ GET OUT. _ And then it flung them, or tried to.

“Hang on!” Bill commanded. “Just -- hang on to It! Don’t let It go!” 

The pounding in Stan’s head increased to near-untenable levels. He very much wanted to pull his hands free from Ben and Eddie, but he refused to.

“Guys?” He heard Richie say. “Look at Stan -- Stan, buddy, you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Stan said. He refused to bail on his friends a second time. He was not aware of the blood dripping steadily from his nose.

“No you’re fucking not,” Richie said. “Bill? What’s wrong with him?” 

“I don’t --” Bill looked hopefully at Mike.

“Maybe he’s too far away,” Mike said. “You called him from --”

“Atlanta,” Stan said, barely able to follow their conversation. “Atlanta...Patty…”

“_Shit_,” Bill said. “S-Stan, I’m s-sorry. Can you find your wuh-way home?” 

“You said not to let go.” 

“You just saved our fuckin’ _ lives_, man! You and your birds. I think you can go home now.” Richie stopped and glared at the rest of the circle. “Right?” 

“Y-yeah,” Bill said, soft and slow. “Stan...thank you…” 

“It’s just the truth,” Stan said._ Remember that, you can’t forget it... _ “It’s just some dark thing that hurts people. That’s all.” 

There was a far-off scream, as if the monster was being hurt by every word. _ See who laughs first! Who lets go! It was too afraid of the truth to hold on!_

Ben squeezed his hand, gently. On his other side, Eddie let go, smiling up at him. “Can you find your way back, Stan?” he said.

“I think so,” Stan said. He knew he had to go back to the hospital bed, but he was thinking of the lovely house with the yew hedges. But that house was only a _ home _ because of the woman he lived in it with, and he had been holding her hand when he disappeared. 

He let go of Ben, and shut his eyes tightly. He reached into the nothingness, and he reached for Patty. 

For a long dreadful moment there was still just nothing. His headache had not left, and he could only wait it out.

Then -- “_Stanley?_” 

“Patty,” Stan said, and he was crying again. “Oh God, babylove --” 

He opened his eyes again, and he was back in the bed in Atlanta, Patty clutching at his good hand. He pulled his hand gently out of her grip so that he could wrap both arms around her, and pull her close. He wept, softly, into the curve of her neck.

“What was that?” Patty said, when they finally pulled apart. “Stanley -- where _ were _ you?” 

“I was with my friends,” Stan said. “They were in trouble. In serious trouble.” _ Hell, they still are. _ “But Patty, I’ll always come back to you.” 

“Stanley,” she said, with tears in her eyes. She pressed a thumb to his chin, and kissed him. He gasped into her mouth; they were both crying. She kissed him again, and again, and again. He wanted to tell her that her words might very well have saved his friends’ lives; perhaps in a moment he would feel strong enough to do that, and he would.

*

\-- and then they were on the floor, back on the dirt-damp-wet sewer pipes; and the spider was rearing back away from them. It was glowing, clearly the source of the light, and it was flickering like a lightning-bug; several of its eyes bleeding that same thick dark blood that the werewolf had. But this was its true form, or close to it, and it was hurt, really hurt. 

“Get it,” Bill said, and his voice was deep and barely his own; he did not stutter. “Come on. Get it. Finish it off.” 

The six of them stood up, and even Eddie and Mike felt steady on their feet. They stepped towards the spider, and the spider screamed, in their minds and out-loud too, high and almost pitiful. 

_ Let me _ go_; I will leave you be, let me go LET ME GO, I can give you anything if you let me be, _

“Did Georgie beg?” Bill said, and then he reached up and he tore off one of the spider’s legs. 

The limb came easily; it was weak now, already poisoned; perhaps already dying. More dark blood flowed, and the spider wailed. 

“Look,” Beverly said, pointing at the spider’s chest; it was blood-coated and you could see it pump-pump, going with the beat of the monster’s heart. “That’s how we kill it. Right?”

“It takes the form of a living thing,” Mike said. “So it has a beating heart.” 

“A silver bullet to kill the werewolf,” Richie said. “C’mon, Big Bill. Just say when.” 

“Now,” Bill said, simply, and six of the Losers struck with the strength of seven. The spider’s flesh parted easily with their combined force; the force not only of their hands but maybe of their memories too; their childhood; their love -- if such things _ had _ a force, and of course they knew they they did; they had the scars on their palms to prove it. Hot ichor spewed out as the spider screamed and thrashed its remaining limbs; hot blood and gore splattering over the Losers. But they did not so much as hesitate. It was Bill who found it first; perhaps it was always going to have been Bill...but he could not have done it without the rest of them.

Bill tugged at the heart.

_ THUMP-THUMP, _ went the heart, amplified around them, above them, in them. The spider was beyond words now, but it screamed like a dying thing, because that’s what it was. The Losers touched at the swiftly beating heart, and then, as one -- without a single word needing to be said -- they crushed it between them. 

There was one last shriek, as the meat of the heart clung to their fingers and they pulled their gore-streaked arms out of its chest. Then the corpse of the spider toppled over, its wretched dirty legs curling up. 

“I-it’s dead,” Bill said, and he was back in his own voice now, and shaking with it. “Christ...d-dead...” 

“We did it,” Mike said, and then his hurt leg went out from under him and he fell, fell hard on the dirty ground. 

“Mike! Shit --” Bev ran to him, and knelt beside him. “Ben, help me get him up --” Ben did, and Mike was on his feet again, albeit shakily, and Bill thought, _ That’s good, _ because now they had to get out of here. He looked around; Eddie was still standing, but he looked dazed, and he was leaning heavily on Richie, who was very pale beneath the blood splatter. Ben’s lower leg had been scratched at some point along the way; he was bleeding steadily and limping a bit, though he was still helping Mike. Bill met Beverly’s eyes; they were tired and sore and bruised, but they seemed to be in the best shape. 

That meant it was their job to get everyone else _ out. _

The soft roar of moving water could now be heard in the distance.

“Bill, that doesn’t sound too good,” Ben said. “I think we ought to get out of here.” 

“Y-yeah,” Bill said. “Can everyone w-walk?” 

“I’m doing my best, Big Bill,” Mike said, smiling softly at him. “I think I can make it.”

Bill smiled back. “Okay, g-good. Eddie, can you lead?”

For a long moment, Eddie just blinked at Bill slowly, as if confused. Then he said, “Yeah, I guess. I can try, anyway. Richie, can you --”

“Just tell me which way to go. I’m gonna take care of you, man.”   
  


And that was how they got out, again; Eddie in the lead, because he was the only one who could do it. Walking out of the lair felt like walking out of a graveyard; and it sort of was that, now. There were the little bones outside the door; and there was the curled-up spider corpse; and they kept passing what looked like shattered eggs -- a terrible thing to contemplate, so they tried not to. Nothing moved, and there was no longer any light; Bill and Beverly would periodically strike matches to light the way.

Eddie was flagging visibly; once or twice he had to stop and lean against Richie to get his breathing under control. But there were no false turns, no hesitation, and when they got to the part of the path that required them on their hands and knees he did not complain. 

Eventually, they were back where they had started, the tall familiar ladder reaching up into that beautiful-impossible sunlight. 

“Oh my God,” Beverly said, and she spoke for all of them in that moment. “Christ. We’re back. We actually...we’re actually back. And it's _morning_.”

There was a soft sigh and a scuffle, from behind her, she spun around to see Eddie sinking to the ground, despite Richie’s arms around him.

“You guys go ahead and climb out,” Eddie said. “I don’t think I can hold on, right now.” His quiet voice terrified Beverly right down to her core.

“What?” said Richie, his voice rising into a panicked point. “Yes you _ can_, Eds, just grab onto Bill like when we were kids and he can climb you out, okay? We’re almost fucking there --”

Watching Richie with those wild eyes when she knew what she knew now was horrible. She found herself stumbling over to Ben and Mike, and she grasped tightly at Ben’s hand. 

“It _ hurts_,” Eddie said, and it was terrible to hear his thin brave voice sound shaky and near-tears. He swayed dangerously again; Richie started to keep him upright, but looked at the desperately tired eyes and lowered him to sit on the hard ground instead.

“Just rest for a minute,” Richie said. “And then we’ll go.” The roar of water could still be heard in the background; they were all trying to ignore that.

“But it _ hurts, _” Eddie said again and then Richie really did start crying; silently and proudly, but Beverly watched as the tears cut across his dirtied face.

“I know,” he said, “Eds...I know…”

And he _ did _ know, that was perhaps the most terrible thing. Beverly felt an intense spike of rage at the entire concept of soulmates; what the _ fuck _ was the point of this; this suffering? Richie’s right hand was balled tight on the shoulder of Eddie’s jacket, but his left arm was shaking with phantom pain. 

But if Richie hadn’t known -- _ I mean we wouldn’t have left Eddie there, in the web _\-- but would they have truly known not too? And without Eddie wouldn’t they still be lost? 

She turned desperate helpless eyes to Bill. She and him were the only ones who had made it out of the lair without some great heaping pain, surely they could come up with something, they had to.

“Eddie,” she said, and let go of Ben so that she could go and crouched beside Eddie and Richie. “We’re not leaving you down here, so you _ have _ to let Bill get you out.” 

“Eddie I will fucking _ tie _ your hands around Bill’s neck if you don’t get the fuck up, right now,” Richie said, any humor overtaken by his tearful voice. He took his hand off Eddie’s shoulder to touch at the back of his head, and then he pulled Eddie forward so that he could press their foreheads together. They stayed touching like that for a long moment, and it was so intimate that Beverly averted her eyes. She looked instead at Bill, who was crouching down beside them now, too.

“What do you think, Eddie,” he said gently, when Richie finally leaned back. “One last pigger-back ride, like when we were kids?” 

Eddie laughed, very softly. Beverly saw that there was now some blood oozing from the terrible wound of his arm, despite how tightly the gauze was wrapped. _ He must be in agony, _ she thought. _ Well, _ they, _ they both must be... _

Eddie let Bill and Beverly help him up. For a long moment Richie stayed crouched on the ground with his shaking arm and his tear-streaked face, and then he got up, too. 

Bill bent down and Eddie twisted his hands around his shoulders and neck. Ben stepped forward, quietly, and he and Beverly boosted Eddie up so that his legs were around Bill’s waist...in another circumstance it would’ve been kind of funny, but she just kept looking at the blood on Bill’s face and down Eddie’s arm. 

Carefully, Bill started to climb. 

“Is...is everyone else okay to get up by themselves?” Beverly said, looking back at her three remaining friends. She was the only un-injured one, now, and she definitely couldn’t lift Ben or Richie.

“I can make it,” Mike said softly. “But it’ll take me a while. Maybe I should go last --” 

“No,” Beverly said sharply. “_I’m _ going last...because I’m the only one of us that doesn’t look about to pass out.” She chewed her lip; but, well, someone had to take charge. 

“You first, Richie,” she said. “Go now. Take your time.” She wanted to tell him not to worry about hiding the pain of his arm, but what was the point? As it turned out, Richie had been hiding for a very long time. 

“Then you, Mike. Ben can go behind you, because he probably has a better chance of catching you if you fall.” 

Ben and Mike watched her with steady eyes. Eventually, Mike nodded.

That made her smile. “And then me,” she said. “I’m the lookout and the last man standing and I’ll follow you up.” 

Richie didn’t say anything, but he gripped the ladder and started up. She tried not to watch to see if his grip with spasm with pain; if he fell -- but no. He wouldn’t. She had to believe it, in a desperate way, that none of them would fall. 

Mike let Richie get partway up, and then he climbed; slow and shaky, letting his wounded leg hang useless and pulling it up with the rest of him. Ben turned quietly to Beverly. She looked up into his eyes, and was overwhelmed with a sudden desire to hold on to him...so she did. She wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. (_She remembered now suddenly a moment from many years ago; where she laid a hand on Ben and he’d frozen up like a statue....and then there was yesterday when he didn’t touch her arms or wrists and she didn’t know if it was because he saw the bruises, or guessed they were there, but -- things were different now, weren’t they? They had to be._) 

“Your turn now, Ben,” she said, and great, now she kinda felt like crying too. “Mike might need you.” 

“Okay, Bev,” was all Ben said, but the warm smile he gave her was its own statement. He limped over the ladder, and climbed on. 

She was the only one left on solid ground for the long moment it took for Mike and Ben to make their way up enough for her to join them. Beverly breathed in the dirty, wet scent of Under-Derry for the last time. She could hear dimly in the distance the sound of that impossible water rising...if they hadn’t climbed out now, surely they’d have been carried off by the flood, washing up who-knows-when in the Kenduskeag. 

She gripped the rusted ladder between her palms and followed her friends up, up,_ up;_ into the air and back into life. 

“My God,” Mike said, when they were all up the ladder. He could hear the emotion in his own voice, but there was no shame in that, not at this moment of all moments. “We actually _ did _ it.” 

_ People will still die in Derry but not like that. Not like little Georgie did -- not like so many others -- not like that. _

It had actually _ worked_. That was the craziest thing of all. He had called the Losers, and his call hadn’t murdered them all; they had come -- as best as they could, and he couldn’t expect anything more than that, he never had -- they had come to help him, they had come to keep their promise, and Holy God in Heaven it had _ actually worked. _

There was no longer a monster under Derry.

They were free. _ He was free. _

In the cool breeze of fresh air, with the sound of water rising behind him, with his friends at his side, with his leg throbbing in pain -- Mike Hanlon started to cry. 

“Aw, Mikey,” he heard; it was Richie, who let go of Eddie long enough to loop his arms around Mike’s neck, “Those better be tears of joy.”

Mike laughed, even though it was a choked-up laugh. He hugged Richie tightly. “Of course, Rich. I guess I just didn’t really believe we were gonna make it out until we actually did.” 

“I know, man.” Richie buried his face in the curve of Mike’s neck, and pressed his eyes shut. 

Eddie was watching; his face tired and pinched; he looked still on the verge of collapse. But he smiled at Mike, and put his good hand on Mike’s shoulder. He stumbled a little; Bill came forward to steady him and soon Bill had one arm around Eddie and one arm looped around Richie’s back, his hand on top of Mike’s. 

“You did it, Mikey,” Bill said. “You did it.” 

Mike shook his head. There were now tears flowing freely down his face; he genuinely could not remember the last time he’d cried like this. 

“I couldn’t have, without you,” he said, truthfully. Bill just smiled. 

Ben and Beverly had been lingering back, Beverly pulling Ben down by one arm to whisper something in his ear. Ben was tugging her over now, playfully, and she was laughing with the glisten of tears in her eyes. She set a gentle hand on the back of Eddie’s neck and pressed her head against Mike’s arm.

“We made it out,” she said. “We did.” 

“We _ all _did,” Ben said, his strong arms around Mike’s shoulders. “I think maybe that’s a miracle.” 

It was. The simplest sort of miracle of them all; the lovely but impossible made real in the world. Mike closed his eyes, and let himself be held for a long, beautiful moment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quote the book: this is still not a story about_ a "rightful sane world where all the good guys won all of the time", _ but hey, maybe it's close, this time. 
> 
> This got super long, and I still didn't manage to do everything that I initially wanted to, but I needed to just wrap it up. After eleven whole chapters, in a fic that I originally thought was only gonna be like 20,000 words long, the freakin' clown is finally dead. I hope you've enjoyed this story with me so far, and that you'll stick around till the end. ♥


	12. The Flood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the long hard fight comes the long hard recovery.

It was a very long and precious moment; out there in the morning sunlight over Derry. Then the roar of the water continued to grow, and Mike started to really hurt, and Eddie was being fully held up by Bill, and finally it was Ben who said softly, “I really think we should probably all go to the hospital, now.”

Beverly laughed, even though her voice was choked with tears. “Yeah, maybe.”

Richie let go of Mike, and said, “Yer so _ smart _ , Haystack, when’d ya get to be so _ smart?” _

Eddie’s limo was still parked by the bridge, which seemed almost strange -- it was proof, perhaps, that the night had actually happened, despite how impossible it all was. Beverly drove, after sharing an unspoken glance with Bill that had him nodding and ushering Eddie and Richie into the back. 

By the time she turned the key in the ignition, the water levels in the Derry Canal were already rising, although none of them noticed. 

*

The arrived at the Derry Home Hospital early in the morning; where baffled receptionists greeted them, as if they were just now coming out of a daze -- because perhaps they were.

“It’s been an odd night,” a nurse told Bill, as she was cleaning out the cut on his cheek. “You know there was a murder in the library?”

“In the Derry Public Library?” Bill said, in faux-wonder. He really _ was _ surprised, in that it was all starting to matter again. It was _ real. _ They were no longer ghosts.

*

Outside, it started to rain.

*

In Atlanta, Georgia, a confused young psychiatric nurse told Patricia Uris that visiting hours did not start until ten in the morning. She smiled at him, although her eyes were puffy from crying, and left quite graciously. The patient, one Stanley Uris, was smiling down at the silver soul-mark on his right wrist. It was the first time that that nurse had seen his patient smile.

*

They would not let any of the Losers see Eddie, once they decided that he was in bad enough shape to warrant surgery. There had been questions as to his family, and no one had really known how to answer -- his mother was dead, but his wife was still alive -- but, as Beverly had pointed out in a quiet but forceful tone, he’d taken his wedding band off. Without Eddie awake to tell them what he wanted, it seemed wrong to contact anyone at all. And so Myra Kaspbrak remained in the dark. 

Richie was pacing up and down the hall, his hand occasionally alighting on his left shoulder. The nurses had found very little that was wrong with him physically. Beverly kept waiting for the other Losers to put the clues together, but they didn’t seem to have done so. 

*

The rain was picking up. The forecasts had been clear; but somehow, the people of Derry were not particularly surprised. Sandbags were laid down; but the old-timers shook their heads, doubtful. 

*

Once Eddie came out of surgery, they could visit him. Mike had been whisked off to his own room, but they managed to talk an orderly into getting him a wheelchair, and so all five of them were crowded around Eddie’s bed like overeager puppies. The nurse, who was watching them with a clearly baffled expression, explained that Eddie was heavily drugged and physically exhausted, so they weren’t to excite him. 

“Sure,” said Richie. “Now when’s he gonna wake up?”

“I don’t know, sir,” the nurse said politely, and made sure they all knew where the call button was before she cut a hasty retreat. 

“You’d think she’d never seen a group of forty-year-olds being friends before,” Beverly said dryly. 

“Speak for yourself, old lady, I’m thirty-eight,” Richie said, and then Eddie woke up.

“Wha..?” he said.

“Eddie!” Beverly exclaimed, as Ben leaned over him eagerly, saying, “Are you alright?” 

“Ben?” Eddie said, still sounding lost, and Mike said, “Hey, give him some space,” just as Bill said, “Rich, are y-you alright?” 

“Richie?” 

Richie visibly pulled himself together at Eddie’s tired voice.

“Right here, Eds,” he said, and stood up so he could lean over Eddie’s bed and let Eddie see him. “Heya.”

“Hi,” Eddie said, blearily. His good arm drifted up, and he pressed his hand against Richie’s cheek, before tiring quickly and dropping it back to the bed. Richie pressed a hand to the spot where Eddie had touched him, wide-eyed. 

Eddie’s eyes roamed. “And I heard...Mike? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Mike said, pretending not to notice that he was in fact crying again. “Everyone’s good, man.” 

“Okay,” Eddie said. _ “Good. _” He frowned, and looked at Richie again. “Richie…”

“Yeah?”

“I wanted…” His eyes slid away, to everyone else; Beverly instantly looked vaguely guilty. 

“We can give you some space, Eddie, if --”

“No! No...I just forgot...I’ll remember…”

“You look pretty tired, Eds,” Richie said. There was a nervous quake to his voice. 

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “I’m going to sleep now. But I want…”

“Someone will be here when you wake up,” Richie promised immediately. He glanced at the other Losers, piercingly. “Right?” 

“Yeah,” Bill said. “It’s okay, Eddie. You can sleep.” 

Eddie smiled at him. “Okay, Bill,” he said, and then his eyes drifted closed on his tired face, and his breathing evened out shortly after. 

Richie wiped at his eyes. “He’s okay,” he said. “_ Cool. _”

“Yeah,” Beverly said, torn between laughing and crying. “Really cool. _ Super _ cool.” 

Bill laid a fond hand on Richie’s shoulder, tugging at him gently until he sat in a chair. “I say we stay in shifts,” he said. “Mikey, you should probably get back to your room. And the rest of us need to sleep, too. I can sit with Eddie first.” 

“I can sleep here,” Richie said instantly. “Sleeping in chairs, great. My back loves it.” 

“Rich, c’mon, you look like shit,” Beverly said.

“Hey!”

“It’s true, man,” Ben said, softly. “You could use some rest.”

Richie stared at them. “I don’t...I don’t think I’ll be _ able _ to sleep.” 

“I have pills in my room,” Beverly said. She shrugged at their surprised looks. “Chronic insomnia. Haven’t really needed them on this trip yet, but they’ll knock you out good, Rich. I promise.” 

He looked at her for a long moment, pleadingly, but she simply looked back. 

“Okay,” Richie said, and then he very quickly turned and kissed Eddie on the cheek. 

“Let’s go pass the fuck out, right?” he said, and Beverly smiled, and took his hand. 

*

Rain was starting to build up; the storm drains were overflowing, unable to do their jobs. There was a slick coating to the roads. Drivers began to stay indoors, although a few brave pedestrians merely pulled on their boots and put their hoods up.

*

They dropped Mike off at his room, and then Ben, Beverly, and Richie took a taxi over to the Town House because none of them felt up to driving -- Beverly had left the keys with Bill, since they were still Eddie’s, even if what the doctors had said seemed to mean he wouldn’t be driving anytime soon. They were so high strung that they barely noticed the cab driver’s anxiety, although it was impossible to ignore the rain.

“No umbrella?” Their driver said. Normally, he was a talkative man, but he simply did not feel up to it that day. 

It was Beverly who pulled herself together enough to answer. “Nah,” she said, smiling. “But we’re a mess, anyway. We could use the wash.” 

This made the driver laugh, and she tipped him as generously as she could.

Inside the Town House, Richie was visibly wilting before their eyes. “You sure you need those pills, Rich?” she said, gently, as he wiped at his eyes. 

“I think I’m good now, Bevvie. Thank you, though.”

“Ring if you change your mind, okay?” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

They watched him go. She turned to Ben. “Are you coming over? Or maybe...one night alone?”

Ben smiled at her. There was still blood in his hair, she noticed -- she wondered whose blood it even _ was _. 

“Honestly,” he said, “I’d just like to take a shower, and be in clean clothes, and I think just getting into that state will wear me out.” 

She laughed. “I hear you.”

“I’d like to talk, after, though,” he said, shyly. _ Still _ shyly, which was -- It was sweet, but it annoyed her a little, too; she frowned at herself. 

“Bev?” 

_ He’s different. He’s different from every man you’ve ever dated, and that’s a good thing. It’s okay if it’s...foreign. _ She didn’t have to like everything about Ben, because, well -- she loved him. As a friend, at least, and maybe something --

“Can I kiss you good night, Mr. Hanscom?” 

“Well, sure,” he said, blushing. “Sure.” 

So she did; standing exhausted and dirty in the middle of the hallway. 

“Good night, then. Or good afternoon.”

“Sleep well, Beverly.” 

She did. 

*

Rain filled up the sewers, but no water ever touched the space behind the little door; no impossible coiled-up legs or shattered egg shells ever washed up for the human eye to see.

*

When Eddie woke up, Bill Denbrough was sitting in a chair beside his bed, looking in deep concentration at the magazine on his lap. Overhead, he could hear the steady pound of rain on the roof.

“Hi,” Eddie said. “What’re you reading, Bill?”

Bill startled. “Eddie!” He grinned, and leaned close to look at Eddie. “You look a little...more coherent. Do you feel okay?” 

“I’m fine.”

“Is the pain bad?” 

“I really feel okay, Bill. What’re you reading?”

Bill showed him the magazine, somewhat sheepishly -- it was a popular auto mag. 

“Do you even know anything about cars?”

Bill laughed. “Not a damn thing. It was the only magazine in the waiting room.” 

Eddie laid back, and smiled up at the ceiling. “What d’you do, then? Bike everywhere, like when we were little?” 

“Hey, I have a license.” He grinned at Eddie. “It’s just that if anything at all goes wrong with the car, I’m fucked.”

“Your wife knows about cars, I hope?”

“Nope.” Bill laughed, loud and carefree. “We’re hopeless. Totally hopeless.” 

It wasn’t really that funny, but Eddie laughed too; he laughed so hard he had to wipe a tear away. 

“Are you happy, Bill? With her, I mean.”

Bill was quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I am. Why?” 

“Oh, I just --” Eddie said, and then all the wait of the unspoken things within him and the decisions he had to make weighed like rocks on his chest. He gasped an unsteady breath. “I’m just thinking about things, that’s all. I’m glad you’re happy, Bill.”

“Thanks, Eddie. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just got overwhelmed.” 

“Breathe easy.”

Bill told him to, so he tried as best he could, and he was asleep again, soon enough.

Bill watched him for a while in silence, and then he stood up, because he had to make a phone call.

*

The pit-patter of rain was as good a noise to rest to as any. Eddie had no dreams, and nor did any of the other sleeping Losers.

*

“Audra,” Bill said. “Hi. How are you?” 

“Bill!” Audra said, her voice dripping with her relief. She’d picked up right away. “Fuck! I was so worried...Bill, that message I got --”

“I’m s-sorry,” he said. “I was...that was in the thick of it all.”

“So you couldn’t talk? Shit, Bill, you left me completely in the dark --”

“I _ couldn’t _ talk,” Bill said, quite forcefully, and then immediately backed off. “I mean -- sorry. But I...I _ literally _ could not talk, Audra...I wasn’t trying to hide from you.” 

“That’s what it felt like, though,” Audra said, after a pause. “It felt like you abandoning me, Bill.” 

He did not know what to say to that. “I didn’t want to abandon you.”

“Those people… with your scar...they’re like your soulmates.”

“Audra…”

“They _ are! _” 

“Audra,” Bill said, and at that moment he very much wanted to be there in England with her; touching her wrists and her palms and her faded-out mark, and reassuring her. 

“I still don’t have a soulmate,” he said. “Audra, I don’t _ want _ one. They’re my friends. You’re my wife. Isn’t that enough?” 

“I don’t know,” she said. “Fuck! Bill, I don’t know if that’s enough.” 

He had always loved her desperate honesty, even though sometimes it hurt. Right now it kinda felt like a knife to the guts.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

There was a beat. Then, “Are you coming back to me, Bill?” Another woman would have perhaps been crying as she said that, but Audra sounded angry, just angry. Which was fair enough.

“I am,” he said. “I -- my friend was hurt real bad, and another...couldn’t make it right away. I want to see them safe...I h-have to see them safe.” 

Audra went quiet. “You stuttered again. I heard it.”

“I think that might stick with me for a while. I’m s-sorry I can’t be your smooth-talking Hollywood man.” 

She sighed. “You know I never wanted that.”

“I know.” 

“I’m really glad you’re okay, Bill. I hope your friends are alright, too.”

“I think they will be. I think we all will be, eventually.”

“Can you do me a favor?”

Bill would’ve promised her almost anything, at that moment. “Yeah.”

“Can you call me every day?” She laughed, a little uncertain. “I know it’s awkward, with the time zones, and it’s crazy over here -- but even just a message.”

“Of course,” he said, heart pounding -- it would be a pleasure, not a burden. “Of course. E-everyday. I will, Audra.”

“I love you, Bill.”

“I love you, too.” And with that, Bill hung up, and went back again to sit beside Eddie.

Was he happy, with his wife? Well, he had been, mostly; and he could be again, easily. He smiled into his hands, holding her voice in his mind.

*

Richie woke up alone. He looked into the dark room -- it was dark now, because he had slept the day away, and whoops, looks like his sleep schedule was gonna as fucked as it was when he was an overnight DJ -- and knew one thing to be true: he had to tell Eddie.

He sat there in the dark for a while, listening to the rain and thinking about his friend. About his _ soulmate _.

For real this time, he had to tell him. They had made it out, which was more than he could ask for, but _ goddammit, _ he was a greedy man, and he was going to ask the universe for one more thing. 

He was going to ask _ Eddie _ for one more thing. 

* 

The Canal was rising higher than it had in decades, its banks overflowing faster than anyone would’ve thought possible.

Businesses closed. Sure, it wasn’t ideal, but many a shop-keep or a mechanic or a telephone-line worker shrugged, and stayed at home; some animal instinct telling them to stay warm, and stay safe. 

*

When Beverly finally fell into bed, she slept half the day away. When she made it downstairs again, the man at the front desk informed her, in a very displeased manner, that she’d missed quite a few calls, and was she planning on picking the phone up anytime soon, or should he let the nice woman on the other end know she should stop calling? 

“Oh, shit,” Beverly said, because there was exactly one woman that ever called her. “No -- look, I’ll call her _ right now _ , sorry; personal crisis, you know how it is.” There was no way he could have any idea how it was, but that was okay.   
  


“Beverly?” Kay McCall practically yelled over the phone. 

“Kay!” 

“Christ, I was worried sick! Where _ are _ you?” 

“I’m -- I’m home, Kay, where I grew up.”

“You’re in fucking _ Maine? _”

Beverly laughed and it was only half choked up. “I -- yeah. I’m in fucking Maine. Are _ you _ okay?” 

“I’m fine, but, Bev, your husband is a fucking shitbag.” 

Beverly’s heart started up fast-paced jig. “Shit, Kay --” She had almost _ forgot _ about Tom, how crazy was that?

“Calm down, Bev, I can hear your panic over the line. I’m really fine, but it’s no thanks to that creep.”

“He hurt you?” Wild tears had flown to her eyes.

“Nah, he didn’t.” There was a brief pause, and then Kay, very gently, “I _ promise _ he didn’t, Bev, he didn’t lay a goddamn hand on me. But he came to my place asking for you.”

“Oh, God…”

“I told him to fuck off, but he didn’t listen and he started trying to hammer my door down, so I, uh…”

“_ What? _”

Kay, unexpectedly, snickered. “I locked him in my garage. He was just _ in _ there, spitting mad, so I closed the door, and called the police.”

Beverly did not know what to say. She was still crying a little, but she started, helplessly, to laugh.

“Seriously?”

“Hand-to-God! The cops showed up and he was ranting like a fucking axe-murderer, about what he was gonna do to me -- color the cops unimpressed, you know? But _ I’m _ fine. I was just worried about you. I’m gonna press charges for the threats, but he probably has some sleaze-ball friends to bail him out, I don’t know…”

“I’m fine, Kay, he had no way to find out where I went.”

“_ That’s _ a fucking relief. How come you didn’t pick up my calls?”

“It’s…” Beverly leaned back, exhausted again, even after her long rest. “A lot has happened in the past few days.”

“Good stuff?”

“A mixed bag.” She closed her eyes. “I guess I have to come back to Chicago and deal with this all now, huh.” 

“I mean…” Kay’s voice went gentle. “You don’t have to sprint back, but if you want any of your shit from your house or business or anything --”

“Am I crazy for just wanting to cut my losses and run off to Nebraska with nothing but the clothes on my back?”

“Not crazy, but why Nebraska?”

“Uh,” Beverly said. “That’s just...where a childhood friend of mine lives now.”

“Well, shit,” Kay said, her voice wondering. “‘A lot has happened in the past few days,’ indeed.”

Beverly went red and was glad Kay couldn’t see it.

Kay laughed, like she knew anyway. “Well, it depends on what you want, I think,” she said.

“I know. I’ll come back to Chicago when I can.”

“Hey, seriously -- if Nebraska seems like a better idea, I think you should go to Nebraska.” 

“And miss thanking my knight in shining armor? You saved me from Tom, Kay.”

“Nah,” Kay said, and there was a seriousness in her fond voice. “No, you saved yourself from him. I was just cheering you on.” 

“Well,” Beverly said, around the lump in her throat, “Thank you, Kay.” 

“You’re welcome, Bev.”

“I’ll see you soon?”

“Whenever you’re ready. Give me a call, okay?”

“I will. I...love you, Kay.”

“Don’t get soft on me now, darling.”

Beverly wiped her eyes, and laughed. “Sorry.”

“I love you too, Bev,” Kay McCall said, and then, because she was uncomfortable with affection, she hung up. Beverly smiled down at the phone, and then set it down, gently. For a while, she simply lay back on the bed in her dark little room in the Derry Town House, listening to the rain and feeling warm from all the love that had wormed its way into her battered heart. 

*

Weather broadcasters shook their heads in bafflement, and told everyone to stay indoors until it let up. The impassable roads of Derry said: this is a day of rest. 

*

From his hospital room, Mike phoned Patty Uris. It took a while, but eventually, she picked up the phone. 

“Patty Uris?” he said, hopefully.

“Mr. Hanlon?”

His heart fluttered, with joy and anticipation. “Yeah, it’s me. Just calling to --”

“Stanley’s good,” Patty said, easily, cutting him off. “Stanley’s doing really well, Mr Hanlon. Thank you.” 

“I didn’t --”

Mike couldn’t see it, but Patty Uris was smiling down at her telephone. 

“Thank you for caring,” she said simply. “I don’t know the details, but...Stanley loves you. He loves all of you.”

How many times could Mike cry in one day? “We love him, too,” he managed eventually. 

“He knows. But I’ll tell him, again.” Patty got briefly silent over the line. Finally she said, “I -- I would really like to meet you all. Is that...”

“Mrs. Uris, we would _ love _ to meet you, too. I was already thinking about -- we could all come up and see you?”

“Patty,” she said. “Patty, please.”

“Patty, then.” 

There was a pause over the line, while she thought about it. “I think actually maybe _ we _ should come down,” Patty suggested gently. “I want...I want to see the place that Stanley is from.”

Mike smiled, deeply charmed. “Derry isn’t too impressive, but we’d love to have you.”

Patty laughed. “Oh, Stanley’s told me about it, a little bit. But I really want to see it, I think.” 

“Of course.”

They talked logistics for a bit, and agreed to call back with more concrete plans. By the time she signed off, Mike was ‘Mike’ again, instead of Mr. Hanlon, just as she was Patty. It felt good. 

*

It was a miraculous flood, really. While plenty of buildings and roads were damaged, not a single soul perished. And buildings and roads and sign posts could be rebuilt, repaired. 

The clock in Grace Baptist Church chimed right on time.

*

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

The Canal was high. It would stay high for a long while, and then when it lowered, bones would wash up on its shores.

It was awful, of course. But they were the bones of people who’d been long-since missing, and maybe it was sort of a relief, too. 

*

Stan would be coming down as soon as he was medically cleared to do so. 

They got to tell Eddie that after the painful conversation about the extent of Eddie’s recovery would be. Eddie was doing good at present, at least; his pain was well-controlled and there was no infection. The break was serious, and so were the puncture wounds, so yes, it would be a long haul, and he might never regain full use of the arm, but Eddie had seemed unfazed by all of this information. Perhaps that was to be expected when one has had a close brush with death. 

He had called his wife and told her only that he was fine, he was safe; she did not need to worry, or to come visit him. There was something Eddie was not saying, when he talked about Myra Kaspbrak, but no one wanted to press.

*

The floodwaters dried quickly. The rebuilding would be slow.

*

Mike’s leg was itching like mad. It was healing well, but that was the downside -- no had ever told him how _ uncomfortable _ a healing wound like that could be. He was doing pretty good at not touching it, though.

He had unfinished business with the town of Derry, and he was trying to attend to it.

*

Police records had been flooded out, going back decades. The library was mostly untouched by the waters, though. If Mike Hanlon had known about that, perhaps he would’ve found it amusing. He was now, unwittingly, the single greatest store of knowledge of the history of Derry.

*

It was not the day Eddie was released. Or, it was, but it was the sort of release where he had to come back all the time and deal with things. There were metal bits in his arm, after all, holding it in place, and a cast to stabilize everything. He was also set to come off the pain pills, which was a whole ‘nother story. 

“Are we sure this is, like, okay?” Richie said. “I get you wanna leave, Eds, but that is...a lot.” He gestured at the cast and sling on Eddie’s arm. “Can you even move your fingers?”

Eddie wiggled them, and Richie flinched. 

“I can,” Eddie said. “It just hurts a bit.”

“Then don’t _ do _ it! Jeez!” 

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do, though?” Ben asked, in that inescapably earnest way of his. 

Eddie turned his eyes to Ben. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, with physical therapy and stuff. Are you going to stay here in Derry?” 

Eddie bit his lip, thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think so, though. I mean...I have to go back to New York, on account of my business.”

“Right,” Ben said, nodding; all of them who had left Derry knew that wealth did indeed come with responsibilities, although they were admittedly much easier to dodge than the responsibilities of poverty. 

Eddie was looking off into the distance. “But, I don’t know if I’ll be in New York for that long. Honestly, I don’t know where I’ll be after leaving my wife, because that’ll affect my business too…” Eddie gave a lopsided shrug, the bulk of the cast tugging down his left shoulder.

There was a stunned silence.

“What?” Eddie said.

Ben said, “Your wife --?”

Patiently, as if explaining to children, Eddie said, “She’s a substitute driver for me, and I don’t know how long it’ll be before I can drive, so --” 

“Yeah, go back to the ‘leaving her’ bit,” Richie said.

Eddie glowered at him, and then at all of them. “What _ about _ it?” 

“Eddie,” Beverly said, gently, “It’s just --” 

“That seems sort of _ sudden _ ,” Bill said, alarmed, cutting her off. She frowned at him, because that wasn’t what _ she _ had been going to say.

To her surprise, though, Eddie didn’t get snappy or defensive; instead, he threw back his head and laughed. “You bet your fur it’s sudden,” he said. “You _ bet. _” 

“Call the nurse,” Richie said, “Eddie Kaspbrak’s finally gone off the deep end.” 

“Shut up, Richie,” Eddie said, and Richie subsided.

“Eddie --” Beverly tried again, but Eddie shook his head.

“No, no -- if you need to know _ why _ this divorce is very much going to happen, I’ll tell you! Myra and I have to split up because I’m a homosexual.” When Eddie started speaking, he had been looking out at them with sharp determined eyes; by the end of his sentence he was looking steadily down at the blankets, where his good hand was balled into a tight fist. 

_ Oh _. Well. Oh. That was -- 

Unexpected, for one. For a long moment, none of the Losers knew how to respond.

“Fucking _ say _ something,” Eddie said eventually, but although his voice was aggressive, he was still just looking at his fist. 

“Give us a second to process, Eds --”

“Process _ what? _” 

“What you just fucking _ said _ \--” 

But that was, apparently, just the wrong thing to say -- wild tears sprang to Eddie’s eyes, and he looked about ready to leap out of his bed and run. It struck Mike then -- how vulnerable he was making himself by telling them this in a situation where he could not leave on his own. 

“Eddie,” he said, although he did not know anymore than Richie what was the right thing to say. “Thank you for telling us that.” 

Eddie looked at him, and Mike felt suddenly very stupid -- to thank him, for simply telling him a fact about himself? But he _ was _ grateful to know it. 

“I just mean,” he said, still feeling like an idiot. “Aw, Hell. This doesn’t change anything between us, okay? You could always have told us.” 

“Could I?” Eddie said, softly. He swiped angrily at his eyes.

“Y-yeah,” Bill said, suddenly. “Really, Eddie. Always. I’m sorry I pushed, a-about Myra.” 

“It’s okay,” Eddie said. “I know how it seems. But I...well. You should see Myra.” He laughed, a painful laugh. “She looks _ remarkably _ like my mother. I do...I do love her in my own way. But it’s not -- it’s. Well. I didn’t know that I was a homosexual for a long time. So I didn’t really know that it was so wrong.” 

That did not paint a very inspiring portrait of Eddie Kaspbrak’s time away from Derry.

“Shit, Eds,” Richie said, summing it up.

“It’s okay,” Eddie said. “I’m okay, I mean. But I do have to leave her.”

“Of course,” Beverly said. “We support you, Eddie.” 

“Yeah,” Richie said. “Whatever you need, man.” 

“Thank you,” Eddie said. He wiped at his eyes again, sort of awkwardly. “Sorry for...springing it on everyone.” 

Ben shook his head. “It’s not...you can always tell us, anything…” he looked up, and around. “I don’t think there should be secrets between us.” 

“If you’re ready to tell us,” Beverly said, with a lightness she did not exactly feel herself, “You can.” 

“That’s all _ I’m _ready for,” Eddie said, smiling slightly. “I’d kinda like to sleep, now.” 

“Okay, Eddie,” Bill said. “I’ll be back in a few hours, and we can check you out and help you get settled in Mike’s place, okay?” They had already moved Eddie’s stuff out of the Town House, as it had been agreed that he should have a more permanent place, given his injury.

“Okay,” Eddie said. “Thanks, Big Bill.”

“No problem,” Bill said, and then he stepped forward to give Eddie a gentle hug. Eddie smiled into the curve of his arm, his eyes still reddish from the tears. 

*

Don Hagarty had got out of Derry as quick as he could, so he was far away from the town when the poison under Derry died. He read about the floods in the newspaper, though. He didn’t know how to feel about the destruction -- or at least, he didn’t until he saw that there were no casualties. After he saw that, he was mostly just hurt and jealous and sad. 

What happened in Derry was miraculous. But the story of Derry was still a tragedy.

*

_ Eddie being gay does not change anything, _ Richie was telling himself, quite sternly. It’s not like he had never wondered, given everything -- but no. That was inappropriate. 

It was hard not to let his brain run away with the possibilities, though. No matter what he told himself. 

He was standing outside of Mike’s house. Shit, it was awkward as Hell to do this at another man’s house, but that’s where Eddie was right now, so what was he gonna do? He let himself pace for another moment, and then he told himself, quite sternly, _ Man up, Tozier _, and he knocked on the door.

Mike was out. He knew Mike was out, because Mike had told him. Mike definitely had some secret project that had to do with all of them and he was honestly being kind of obvious about it. But that didn’t matter! He knocked again. 

“I’m _ here _,” Eddie said, annoyed, as he opened the door.

“Hiya,” Richie said. Shit, why did he always say something dumb when he was nervous? Luckily, Eddie laughed.

“Hiya, Rich. Come in, I guess.”

“You _ guess? _ Gee, I feel real welcome.” 

Eddie smiled. His smile was small but lovely, as always. “Well, it’s not my house.” 

“Fair enough.”

Mike’s house was small and somewhat untidy, but it was charming -- it reminded Richie of his own places, before he got too big for his britches and starting shelling out rent for nice places; nice places that never felt like home. Eddie took him into the room he was staying in -- clearly usually used for storage, but there was a bed in it. Eddie sat on the bed, and Richie sat on a wooden chair he’d swiped from the dining room. 

“You got something to tell me?” Eddie said.

“Yeah,” Richie said, and then fell suspiciously silent. 

“_Rich. _”

“Look, I’m trying --” 

Eddie laughed. “Rich, I already told everyone I was a homosexual. What could be worse that _ that? _”

“Well. It’s...related.” 

That made Eddie sit up straight; his good hand clenching the blankets.

“Yeah?” he said, tightly.

“Yeah,” Richie said. “It’s nothing bad, Eds. I’m sorry.” 

“Can you just say it, already?”

“It’s hard to say it. But I can show you.” 

He performed the familiar motion; the dip of his trousers. It could be flirtatious; now it was desperate. Such was life. 

“My soul-mark,” he said, be way of explanation. “Do you recognize it?” 

Eddie stared at his hip. Then, “I don’t.”

_ Well, fuck. _

“Eds --” 

“Richie, why are you showing me this?”

_ Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me! _

“Eddie,” Richie said, pleadingly. “That’s -- your soul-mark. You have one too! On the back of your knee. _ We’re soulmates! _”

Eddie stared at him. 

“Oh,” he said. “Really?”

“Yes,” Richie said. “Um. Really!” 

There was a long pause; then Eddie leaned forward, carefully. 

“Rich,” he said. “Soulmates aren’t -- they aren’t _ real _. I mean, they don’t...have to mean anything.” 

Oh, Jesus Christ, just shatter his heart into little-bitty pieces, huh?_ Buck up, Tozier! Nothing means anything! _

“Since I was a kid,” Richie said, half-pretending he hadn’t heard what he just heard. “I knew I had this -- and I knew it was you. I mean, I forgot, but -- I knew it was you. I’m sorry. It was you.” 

“What are you apologizing for?” Eddie said, and then he simply looked very sad.

Richie just looked at him. “I’m apologizing for it being you! I don’t want to rope you into this since clearly soulmates are...not your favorite thing.” 

“I’m not going to be roped into anything I don’t want,” Eddie said. “Not anymore. That’s what _ I’m _ telling _ you. _” 

Richie pretended that his heart wasn’t shattering into a million tiny pieces. “Okay,” he said. “I get that.” 

“Do you?” Eddie said. He stood up off the bed. Richie stared up at him, nervously.

“Eddie --”

“Shh,” Eddie said, and then his leaned down, and lifted up Richie’s chin with his uninjured hand. “Be quiet, Richie, for once.” Then he kissed Richie, sweetly and gently, but square on the lips. 

“Guh,” Richie said. “What --?” 

“It’s called a kiss,” Eddie said, and when Richie made no effort to pull away, he pressed their mouths together again. Richie opened his mouth to him; his tongue pressing at Eddie’s lips, and Eddie went open-mouthed for him, until they were gasping and pulling at each other. 

“Eds,” Richie said, dazedly, when they broke for a moment, to breathe. “Eds! What’s … what does this _ mean? _”

Eddie sat down again, on the bed, but his good hand kept reaching for Richie; Richie set his right hand out to be held. 

“It means,” Eddie said. “It means...I don’t believe in soulmates, or destiny, but -- I --” 

“Please,” Richie said. “Give me a _ chance_, man.” 

“I _ am! _” Eddie laughed, suddenly and wildly. “Rich! I can’t pretend to believe in soulmates, but I’ve been hearing your voice in my head since I was a kid. I’ve probably wanted to kiss you for that long, too.” 

Richie’s eyes went wide with shock. Then his ears went pick. “Shit. Really?”

“Yeah.” Eddie smiled. “Really! I can’t -- I don’t --”

“I get it --”

“No, you _ don’t. _ My parents were soulmates; and look how my mother was after he died? I’m not being that for you.” 

“It won’t be like that!”

“Don’t argue! I’m not doing it. But, I’ll…” Eddie shrugged, again with one of those awkward shrugs with ihs bulky cast. “I’ll try, Rich. If you play it straight. Just a relationship, that’s all.” 

He wanted more than that. He did. But…

“Sure, Eds. I’m sorry for pressuring you -- it’s whatever you want. Really.” 

“Thank you.”

“Can I kiss you again, though?” 

Eddie laughed again; God, who _ cared _ what their relationship was, if Richie got to keep him laughing he’d be happy as a clam --

“I guess,” Eddie said. “I guess you can!” 

Richie stood up, but Eddie surged up to meet him, and it was Eddie who cupped his hand around Richie’s chin and titled him down to his level; opening his mouth for him again; pressing wet kisses on each other until they had to break for breath again. In all honesty, Eddie was a messy kisser, but it was a sloppiness borne from enthusiasm, and it made Richie’s heart race. 

Then, a door downstairs opened. 

“Fucking hell,” Richie said. “Mikey’s back.” 

“You should go,” Eddie said. His face was flushed, his pupils blown wide. “I need...to think about this.” 

“Right,” Richie said, trying to ignore the thrum in his veins, and _ Jesus _ how was it possible that he was so terrified and so joyous at the same time? 

He walked out passed Mike, and smiled as he did it. Maybe the things that were terrifying and horrible weren’t so impossible, after all.

* 

Mike had been in the library all day. Bill had come to visit him at one point, which was nice. He invited Bill to sit beside his makeshift desk -- his actual office was still part of a crime scene, technically, despite how half-hearted work the police were putting into the case was.

“What are you doing,” Bill said, “when we’re all well enough to move on? You gonna stay here, Mikey?” 

That was a hard question -- or at least, it_ had _ been a hard question. Mike had an answer for it, now. 

“I’m not staying here,” Mike said. “I think I’ve done my duty. But I’m not abandoning it, either.”

“Yeah?” Bill said, obviously intrigued.

“Yeah.” For a moment, he just let that sit; his hands tap-tap-ing on his crutches.

“So what’s that mean?” 

“It means…” Mike could feel himself wanting to turn the conversation away; wanting to blush or hide -- but there was no shame in this. “It means I’ve been looking into buying a new house. A place...I don’t know. A place where we can all come back.”

Bill stared at him. “Here?”

“Where else?”

Bill’s face split into a grin. “Fair. I...I like it, Mikey. It’s an outpost, right? A lighthouse. But you don’t have to be the light-keep anymore.” 

“Don’t I?”

“I don’t think so,” Bill said, gently. “Here, let me look at that.” Mike had been holding his notes in his hand, and he let Bill look at his ideas.

After flipping through them, Bill looked up, seemingly impressed. “You’ve really looked into this, Mike.” 

“I’m serious about it, I guess.” Bill nodded, and kept reading.  
  


In the end, Bill offered to go half-and-half on a mortgage.

He grinned at Mike, when he offered it. “If the turtle offered, Mikey,” he said, “might as well take it, right?”

“You remember that?” 

“Not quite,” Bill said, and then he leaned forward and kissed Mike on the cheek. “But consider it a gift from the universe, anyway, okay?” 

Mike nodded, and did something that was quite rare for him -- he took the help.

*

The streets of Derry had dried. The blood; all of the blood, was dry, too. But the stains remained. Mike Hanlon still had his records, stored in page after page in the Derry Library. A notebook clipped with photos of missing children; a picture of Adrian Mellon and Don Hagarty, their arms arms around one another -- that one had been quite hard to find. 

It was lovely, though. A sad memory, but a beautiful one. There was a picture of little Georgie Denbrough folded in there, too. That one, he wanted to give to Bill. 

*

Revenge was not a cure for grief or pain or longing. The Losers had not expected it to be, but it was still difficult, to know how to pick up the pieces.

*

Stanley and Patricia Uris booked a plane ticket. The travel adviser Patty had spoken to had been mildly amused by their eagerness, “Going north for the summer?” she joked. 

“Oh, well,” Patty said, with a private little smile. “Visiting old friends.” 

“Ah,” their agent said, and Patty could hear her smile down the line. “Always a good reason.” 

And it was.


	13. 'To the Children'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new day over Derry, and the Lucky Seven are finally together again.

Stan and his wife were arriving in a few days. Eddie’s limo was parked at Mike’s house, now; and Richie would be driving his own car to the airport to pick them up. Somehow, figuring out the driving logistics was one of the most comforting things they’d talking about since defeating the beast under Derry. 

“Night, Bevvie,” Richie said, as he snubbed put the cigarette he’d borrowed out of Beverly’s newly purchased pack. 

“Night, Rich,” Beverly said. She was still sucking on the remnants of her cig.

Soon, she’d go up her room, and Ben would be there, and they continue the hard work of actually building a relationship; a relationship that didn’t jump zero to sixty but that actually had to go beyond saying, _ I want to fuck you _ and that was it. It was weird, but appealing; she was solidly sure that it would be worth it; that it would be good for her, if only she knew how to take it.

_ Chin up, Beverly, _ she told her herself, and smiled at the reminder that she’d be seeing Kay not too long from now. Kay would set her straight. Or at least, she’d listen to whatever it was Beverly had to get off her chest.

*

“Bev? Is everything okay?” Part of the problem was that Ben was too damn observant.

“I’m fine, Ben,” she said. “Are you -- are you good?”

“‘Course,” he said simply. “I’m really good, Bev. You know that.”

“I don’t,” she said, truthfully, even though the truth was stupid.

Ben didn’t say it was stupid. “Okay,” he said. “Well, then -- I’m really good, Bev. Are you sure you’re fine?”

“I’m sure,” she said. 

“I’m glad,” Ben said. “Can I kiss you?” 

“When do we get to stop asking?” _ When do we get to just be? _

Ben froze, and stared at her. “What --? I’m...I’m sorry, Bev, I just --” 

“It’s fine,” she said, shortly. It wasn’t, but she didn’t know _ why _ it wasn’t. It _ should _ be fine. 

She didn’t answer his question, but she did wrap her hand around his neck; he was quite a bit taller than her, but not so much that she couldn't go up on her tip-toes and press her lips to his.

Ben melted against her; he opened his mouth against her; and he barely flinched when her arms dropped from his neck to his back. Beverly forgot her own hesitations, and his, for a time.

*

Bill and Mike looked at several houses, including one that was pretty close to Mike’s current neighborhood; too big and too ostentatious for most of the people living down that way, but not bank-breaking, either. 

“Billy,” Mike said, “Look at this.” Bill came over, and looked; there was a window shaped like a half-circle in the front of the house. Out of it, it felt like you could see half of Derry.

“That’s good,” Bill said. “Shit, Mike, that’s really good.” 

It was the place. They would have started paying for it then and there, if they could. The real estate agent seemed vaguely baffled by their laughter and their enthusiasm; but it was simply the case that the house was perfect, and they had to have it. 

*

Stanley Uris would be arriving in a few hours, and Ben Hanscom was certainly not panicking over something completely unrelated. That would be silly. He was not some insecure kid anymore, after all.

Beverly had asked him to come down and sit with her. It was that simple, and that complicated. He was terrified, perpetually, of fucking it up -- sure, she was willing to spend time him, even consider a relationship with him -- she had _ kissed _ him enough times -- but there was still time to ruin it all. 

But he couldn’t think about that.

He kept remembering what she said -- _ Are we always going to have to ask? _ and the answer was, as far as he was concerned, _ Maybe, _ or at least, _ Probably for a long time. _

He was scared she thought that meant he didn’t want her. He _ did _ want her, obviously, he had for a long time -- but he was out of practice with wanting.

_ What do you want, right now? _ He asked himself, and his body and mind said, _ To be with her. _ So he took up the book he’d been reading before she asked, and he headed down, to sit with her, for as long as she’d like.

*

It was hot -- unseasonably so -- in Derry, and so Beverly Marsh was sitting at one of the little outside tables that were helpfully provided for guests of the Town House. She was smoking and appreciating the sun on her face. She was faced towards the doors, because Ben had said he was going to come down in a moment to sit with her. 

As such, she did not see the man who was walking up behind her. Instead, she saw his reflection in the glass panes of the doors. But somehow the reflection was not of a man at all; it was of a neat young boy with his shirt tucked into his cuffed trousers, the shape of a book visible in one pocket. And in that book would be the names of birds…

Beverly leapt out of her seat and spun around. Stan was there; smiling shyly at her.

“Beverly Marsh,” he said. “I’d recognize that ginger mane anywhere.” 

“Stan! Stanley,” there were tears pricking her eyes, _ how embarrassing_, except that Stan looked a little red-eyed too, to be honest. “Oh my God, what are you doing here? We were supposed to pick you up from the airport --” 

“Our flight was moved earlier,” Stan said. “How serendipitous. We decided to drive down and surprise you all.”

“Well shit,” she said around the lump in her throat. “Color me surprised.” And then she grabbed Stan into a hug, burying her face in the crook of his neck. His hair was longer than it had been as a child, and not combed as neatly. 

She pulled back, and finally let herself take in the petite woman beside Stan, her hands clutching nervously in front of her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry -- you must be Patricia Uris. Lovely to meet you, I’m sure. I’m Beverly Marsh.” She held out her hand, and Stanley’s wife shook it firmly.

“Patty,” she said, and the smile she offered was small, but quite lovely. She pulled Beverly down into a brief hug. “Please, my friends call me Patty.” 

_ Stan, I am totally going to fall for your adorable wife, _ Beverly thought, and she assumed from Stan’s smug smile that he knew that.

“You guys have to come inside and see everyone,” she said, and _ Wow, _ that sensation bubbling up in her was joy, simply joy, “Richie is gonna flip, he was the one who was going to drive to get you --” 

Of course, at that moment, Rich Tozier walked out of the door of the Town House. 

“Hey, Bev,” he was saying, “I was gonna go see Eddie before we head to the airport, d’you wanna --” he stopped mid-sentence to gape at the three of them.

“_Stanny? _” he said, eventually, and if the nickname made Beverly’s heart clench, but it was a happy nostalgia. “Stan! What the fuck, man?!” 

Richie ran over and essentially tackled Stan into a hug. 

Stan was laughing, and hugging him back, his unbandaged hand reaching to grip Richie’s shoulder. (She noticed that his other arm had gauze peeking out from under his sleeve, and a little brace on his wrist, and he was holding it carefully still and away -- but those were worries that could be dealt with after the initial shock of joy.) 

“Hi, Richie,” Stan said. “You okay?” 

When Richie pulled back from Stan, Beverly was unsurprised to see tears tracking easily down his face. “Yup,” he said, his voice kinda rough. “I’m just peachy. Hey, Stan-the-man, you’re like, _ tiny _, how come half the Losers’ Club never grew up --” 

“Oh, fuck _ off, _ ” Stan said, grinning, and Beverly leapt in to add, “Just ‘cause you and Bill are freaks of nature doesn’t mean the _ rest _ of us are short, Rich.” 

Richie laughed. “Hey now, Ben’s pretty tall compared to you at least, little lady --” he leered at her, and she swatted at him. 

“_Ew_, don’t call me that --” 

“Am I missing the party?” 

They all turned. Ben was standing in front of the door, and grinning at them. He had a book in his hands; he had come down to read with Beverly. She felt a surge of warmth towards him. 

“Haystack?” Stan said, a little incredulous, and Ben joined the aforementioned party by pulling him into a tight hug, too. 

“Yeah,” Ben said, “it’s me. Still me. Hey, man.” 

Beside him, Richie had shifted to greet Patty, turning on the charm -- and Beverly noted with some amusement that he did, at least, seem to be _ actually _ charming now, and wasn’t even doing a Voice at her. 

“Okay, for real though,” Richie said after a moment. He wiped at a stray tear on his face and did not even appear to be particularly self-conscious about it. “Where are Bill and Mikey, they gotta get in on this.” He wrapped a hand around Stan’s shoulder and leaned in to stage whisper, “You _ gotta _ see Bill, he’s gone bald, it’s hilarious --” 

“Yeah, it’s the best joke ever,” Bill said, dryly. Richie spun, grinning.

“Look who’s _ here! _” he said, joyously, and Beverly found herself giggling, in a weird and giddy way. 

“Hey, Stan,” Bill said, easily, and he wrapped Stan in his own tight hug, one hand cupping the back of Stan’s head when Stan hid his face in his chest. 

“Bill,” Stan said. “It’s really good to see you. In person, I mean.” 

Bill pulled back to grip Stan by the shoulders, and they smiled at each other for a long moment. And then there was just one person left.

“Hi, Stanley,” Mike said, softly. He was still at the door of the Town House, leaning on his crutches. “It’s good to see you.” 

This time it was Stan who bridged the distance. He walked forward to Mike, and hugged him as best he could around the crutches.

“Good to see you too,” he said, just as Mike said, “Stan, _ I’m sorry -- _”

“Please,” Stan said. Beverly also felt she should turn away, but these were her friends, and she needed to know --

“Please don’t apologize, Mike,” Stan was saying. “Not now. You all know…” his uninjured hand flexed. “You all know what I did. But it’s not your fault.” 

“Feels like it, though.” 

Stan smiled, small and brittle. “Yeah. I know.” He took Mike’s hand in his own, and Beverly knew that motion -- he was tracking the scar on Mike’s palm. 

“It’s good to see you, man,” Mike said after a long, heavy moment. His voice was only a little choked up. 

“You too, Mike.” 

She watched, then, as Mike closed his fingers over Stan’s hand, and for a long moment, her two friends just held each other. Eventually, Mike let go, and Stan hugged him loosely again.

“How’s Eddie?” he said, turning to the rest of them. “He didn’t look so good, when -- you know. Is he…”

“He’s okay,” Ben said. “He’s at the hospital right now.” 

“Just for a check-in, though,” Mike said. “He’s staying at my place for now.”

“Oh, good,” Stan said. He offered up a little smile. “Hospitals are hard. It’s better to be with friends or family.” 

“I was about to go pick him up,” Richie said. “Wanna come?” 

“I’d like that,” Stan said, and Beverly grinned to see it. She glanced over at Bill; he was smiling wide, too. The Lucky Seven, back together again. 

*

“Hi, Eddie,” Stan said. He was trying really hard not to start crying -- he’d already cried on the plane, God, what a mess he was these days -- but it was hard. Eddie had a large unwieldy cast on one arm, and a complicated sling was holding it in place. He looked pale under the hospital lights, but he turned at Stan’s voice, and the smile that crossed his face was beatific.

“Stan!” He said, and he bounced out of the uncomfortable waiting room chair and wrapped his good arm around Stan.

“Hi,” Stan again. He wrapped an awkward arm around Eddie’s back, trying to avoid the cast.

“It’s okay,” Eddie said, apparently reading Stan’s mind. “You’re not hurting me.” Stan closed his eyes, and pulled Eddie a little closer.

When he pulled back, he said, “I’m glad to see you’re okay, Eddie.” 

“You too,” Eddie said, and then for a long moment neither of them said anything. They were, Stan thought, the Losers that’d come closest to not making it out, but they had. They both had. They smiled at each other until Richie re-appeared, with all his loud energy, telling them it was time to go.

Patty was at their room in the Derry Town House, but Stan found himself wanting to accompany Eddie to Mike’s house, maybe just to talk to him a little more.

When he mentioned this to Richie, Richie’s eyes flicked over to him, and he smiled. “I think that’s a good idea, Stan,” he said, with a rare softness. “I can’t imagine -- Mike was here by himself for so long, you know?” 

“Yeah,” Stanley said, looking out the window at the changed town of Derry, “I know.”

*

Mike was downstairs, talking to Stan, and Eddie was in his borrowed room, peering into a little mirror. There was a little cut on his left cheek, because it turns out he was used to using both hands to shave and wasn’t accustomed to one yet. He was _ aware _ of it. 

“What’s that?” Richie said, his fingertips hovering over his cheek. Eddie batted it away. 

“Leave it, Rich.”

“Do you need help with shaving? I can --”

“I said, leave it! Rich, we talked about this!”

“Did we? Just because you hate soulmates --”

“I don’t _ hate _ soulmates, I just don’t think a little silver mark is gonna make me fall in love --”

Richie looked like he’d been slapped. “Shit! I get it. I _ get _ it. I’m sorry, okay?”

“Richie, I didn’t mean --”

Richie looked miserable, and lost. “I just want to take care of you, Eddie! What’s so wrong with that?” he said.

Eddie had to turn and pace away from Richie so as not to lose his temper. Eventually, he turned back to him. “Rich, _ think _ about what you just said for a minute.” 

“Oh, come on, Eddie. I am not your fucking mother.”

“You’re not my wife, either. She tried to take care of me, too. All the time! I’ve always...I mean. I’ve never…” _ I have never been in a relationship where I can be myself, my actual self. _

“Eddie…” Richie took a step forward, as if to touch him. Eddie stepped back, and Richie let his raised hand fall.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Eddie, I swear I’m not trying to be your mother.” He winced. “Or your wife. But I can’t help it! I don’t want to fix you or change you -- that would be stupid, ‘cause you’re like, perfect -- but I just want things to be good for you. That’s all.” 

It was hard to be mad when Richie was looking at him so pleadingly. He wasn’t ready to let go at that anger -- perhaps he never would be -- but he was tired of being angry at _ Richie. _ Eddie stepped forward.

“You have to let _ me _make them good. For myself.” He gripped Richie’s arm. “That’s the only way this’ll work.”

That made Richie smile. “‘This’?”

Eddie smiled back at him. “Us,” he said, and then he leaned up to kiss Richie. 

Richie squeaked, and Eddie took advantage of it to bite at his lip. Richie gasped, and Eddie deepened the kiss -- God it felt like _ fireworks _; had kissing always been like this? Like running, like tumbling -- like -- like -- He gripped roughly at the back of Richie’s neck. He had no hope of hearing the door open, over the pounding of his heart in his ears. Richie twitched slightly, but Eddie didn’t let go.

“Oh, fuck,” Stan said.

Eddie’s brain broke. Richie staggered back and away from him. “What?” he said. “What -- Stan --”

“Shit,” Stan said. He was blushing furiously. “I’m sorry --” He started backing away.

“No!” Eddie and Richie called at the same time. Stan stopped stock-sill in confusion. 

“Look,” he said, arms raised. “Sorry! I should’ve knocked. Although, actually, this is Mike’s house, and your door was _ not _ pushed shut. But still! I’ll just leave and pretend I saw nothing, okay?”

Eddie could hear his words, but he wasn’t sure he could process them. His ears still felt overwhelmed by the pound -- oh wow, that was a _ fast _ heartbeat --

“Eds!” Richie said, jumping back to grab his shoulders. Pain skyrocketed through him and Richie said, “Fuck! Sorry!”

“Where’s his aspirator?” Stan said. Stan had not left, apparently. He was hovering close to Richie.

“He doesn’t have one!” Richie said, in a clear panic. “Fuck! It’s in the sewers!” 

“Rich, you’re not helping,” Stan said sharply, and then Richie was gone, and Stanley was right in front of him. 

“Eddie,” Stan said. “You’re okay. You’re here.” He laid his hand on Eddie’s cheek. Eddie let himself feel his fingers, one by one. He looked at Stan. Stan’s face was pinched and worried and still flushed hot. 

Eddie breathed through the tight scary burn in his throat.

He reached up and touched Stan’s chin. He waited until he actually _ felt _ the sensation in his fingers. 

It took a long time, and it hurt. But eventually his breathing evened.

“I’m okay,” he said. “Thanks, Stan.” 

“No problem,” Stan said. He let go of Eddie’s cheek, and smiled at him.

“I’m adding a new aspirator to our to-do list, Eds,” Richie said, his hand still on his throat. “I know you don’t want one, but --”

“No,” Eddie gasped. It was embarrassing, but if he needed it -- and there was Richie to think about too; Richie who was not accustomed to that familiar burn. “No, it’s -- yeah.”

“Cool,” Richie said, although his voice was still pitched too high to be casual. “Anyway, Stan, you’re caught up now -- you missed Eddie’s big dramatic coming out scene.”

“What?”

“Oh,” Eddie said. “Yeah. Stanley, I’m a homosexual.” 

Stan glanced between him and Richie. “…Okay. Thanks for telling me…?”

Richie slung an arm around Stan’s shoulder. “And aren’t ya gonna ask about _ me? _” Before Stan had time to reply, he said, “Well, I’m...bisexual. I guess. And Eddie is my…” He made a mysterious gesture with his free hand. 

“Boyfriend?” Eddie suggested, and Richie went pink. 

“Are we?” 

“I mean,” and great, now Eddie was blushing too. “If you want…”

“I do want,” Richie said, and he was smiling one of those goofy, genuine grins again. 

“I _ really _ feel like I should not be here for this conversation,” Stan said. 

“Don’t be homophobic.” 

“What --?” Stan jumped as if electrocuted.

Richie snorted. “I’m kidding! Stan-the-man, I’m sure you’ve never been prejudiced against gay people a day in your life!” Richie hugged Stan as he said this, and Stan patted him on the back, sort of nonplussed. (Eddie, who recognized this for what it was -- Richie was emotionally overwhelmed -- simply smiled from behind them.)

“Eddie,” Richie said, when he came up for air. “Can I tell Stan -- you know?” 

_ The soulmates thing. _ Well, it was bound to come up. Eddie thought about it, for a long moment. He looked at Stan. 

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s fine, Rich.” 

Richie still had one hand on Stan’s shoulder. “Stanny, do you remember...when we were little, it was 1959. Spring, 1959. I told you I had a soul-mark. Remember?”

Stan looked at him, mouth slightly open. “I do -- the odd thing is, I don’t think I _ did _ remember, but yeah, now I do. And…” They could see the moment the penny dropped, and Stan stared at Eddie. 

“You told me you thought you had a platonic soulmate,” he said, slowly.

“I knew,” Richie said, voice soft. “I knew it wasn’t. Even then. But I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t.” 

“It’s Eddie?”

“Yeah. It’s Eds.” 

And then it was Stan’s turn to hug Richie, tightly, very tightly. 

“Patty is my soulmate,” he murmured.

“I know,” Richie was sounding a little choked up, now.

“It’s the best thing in the world,” Stan said. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Thank you,” Richie said, into the curve of Stan’s shoulder, and it was a long time before they pulled apart.

“Eds doesn’t believe in soulmates,” Richie told Stan, wiping his eyes. 

Stan laughed. “That’s okay. I get it, Eddie, really. But I’m just...I’m just excited. I’m happy.”

It felt sort of like a weakness to admit this, but Eddie wanted to anyway. “I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t know if I ever will. But it makes Richie happy.” 

Stan gave him a sincere smile. “Sometimes that’s enough, right?”

“It’s something, anyway,” Eddie said, and Richie coo-ed.

“Aw, Eds,” he said, and then he leaned in, and he kissed Eddie in front of Stan and God. 

*

Stan had been in town for several days, and since he’d arrived, Ben’s heart had felt light in his chest. He was glad to be with his friends.

That night, he was building a ramp on top of Mike’s stairs. There were only a few of the stairs, leading up to the porch, but they weren’t kind to his injured leg. Ben liked doing it. It was easy work and it felt good to use his hands. Richie and Eddie would be back from the hospital soon, and he had a vague idea to be done by then, but in all honesty the more he worked, the less of a hurry he was in. 

Mike had brought a few beers out, and was sitting with his leg elevated. It was not often in his adult life that Ben got to talk while he worked. It was nice. Really nice.

“So,” Mike said into a quiet moment. “Bill and I have had an idea.” 

Ben wiped his hands of wood dust and grabbed his beer, taking a swig of it. “Yeah? What sort of idea? I hope it doesn’t involve silver slugs.”

Mike laughed long and hard at that; longer than it probably deserved.

“No,” he said. “No, it does not. And thank God for it.” 

They smiled at each other, and Ben tilted his beer at Mike. Mike returned the gesture, and they shared a swig. 

“It’s...maybe it’s a little childish. You’ll have to tell me what you think. But essentially -- we’ve decided to get a place here in Derry.”

For a moment, Ben was simply confused. “Like...a house?”

“Like a house, yeah. It’s mine and Bill’s idea, so we’ll pay for it, but I thought...I dunno. It’d be a place that any of us could always come back to, if we wanted. A home-away-from-home.” He frowned. “Or just a home. Depends on how you look at Derry.”

Ben smiled. “I wasn’t here for that long, really. But...they were mostly good years for me. It’ll always be a sort of home.”

“And I never left, of course,” Mike said. “I mean...my father chose this place. Isn’t that...isn’t that _ incredible? _ He stayed, even after the Black Spot, even knowing…” Mike paused, and took another sip of his beer. “He stayed,” he said again. “Because sometimes that’s just what people do. They stay and they stand their ground. Maybe they got no place better to go, or maybe they’re just brave and tough. I don’t know.”

“Thank God for you dad,” Ben said, softly. “I mean. Who else coulda done this, other than you?”

Mike shrugged. “I think it could’ve been any of us, really. Or at least some of us. But there’s other forces out there.”

Ben, who had been raised by an atheist, smiled at that. “My mother wouldn’t like to hear this,” he said, “but I think you’re right.”

“So you think the house is a good idea?”

“Yeah, Mikey, I do. It’s like…” Ben set down his beer, and picked up a plank of wood. It felt like building the clubhouse; it felt like his first school project; it felt like his latest project. “It’s like a lighthouse. To keep watch over Derry, and shine warning lights through storms.” 

“A lighthouse. You know, Bill said the exact same thing.” 

They smiled at each other, and were still feeling very fond when Richie’s car pulled up the drive a few moments later.

Eddie climbed out the passenger side, careful of the bulky cast and sling.

“Hi, Eddie,” Mike said. “Everything good?” 

Eddie smiled at him. It was kind of amazing -- ever since leaving the hospital, there was a subtle but lovely change in Eddie’s face. Ben had finally managed to pinpoint it: it was simply that Eddie did not look quite so tired. He saw the same thing on Mike’s face, too.

“Everything’s fine,” Eddie smiled. “I can start physical therapy for my shoulder, soon, probably, though obviously everything else will have to wait for the cast to come off.” 

“That’s great news!” Ben said, and Mike waved a beer in Eddie’s direction. 

“Want one?”

“No, thank you,” Eddie said, and it was hard to miss the crinkle of his nose.

“If it’s Bud light,” Richie said, swinging out of the driver’s side, “Our Eddie is above such things.”

Eddie blushed, and Mike laughed. “Well, I think I got gin in the cupboard, but I can’t give you any prune juice, sorry.”

“Oh, I don’t need anything, Mike, really,” Eddie said, but Richie scoffed.

“Well, _ I’m _ raiding your cabinets,” he said, throwing an arm around Eddie’s neck. “That okay, Mikey?”

“That’s fine, Rich, knock yourself out.”

“Yessir!” Richie gave a mock salute, pulling Eddie even closer. Eddie grasped at his arm, shooting an oddly pensive look at Ben and Mike. 

“Let go, Rich,” he said, quietly, and Richie looked surprised, but did so.

“Sorry,” he said, and Ben watched the scene with some minor confusion. Eddie and Richie weren’t usually so awkward with each other, so what --? Perhaps Richie had hurt his arm by accident. They thought little of it, and Mike watched as Ben sanded down the sides of his ramp.

*

“So,” Richie said, in Mike Hanlon’s kitchen. “When do I get to tell everyone else?”

Eddie looked up from the cabinet with Mike’s liquor collection. “_You _ get to tell them?”

“Well, _ or _ you!” 

“Rich, I…” he turned, the bottle of mid-shelf gin clutched in his hand. “I don’t know…”

“We don’t _ have _ to tell anyone. I’m serious, Eddie.”

“You want to, though,” Eddie said. He poured himself a small helping of the gin. 

“Yeah,” Richie said. He set a glass in front of Eddie, one eyebrow raised in a mild challenge. “I do.” 

Eddie poured him a drink as well. “Are there mixers for this?” he said. 

“Please don’t ignore me,” Richie said, but he opened Mike’s fridge, and handed Eddie a ginger beer. 

“Thank you.” Eddie cocked his head at Richie. “Open it for me?”

“I thought you didn’t want help.” 

“I don’t. But I do only have one workable hand.” 

“Fair enough.” 

There was a tension in the air that Richie wasn’t sure how to interpret. Instead of trying, he wrenched open the beer with Mike’s bottle-opener, and poured a moderate amount into Eddie’s glass. 

“Rich,” Eddie said, when Richie avoided his eyes. 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m not going to freak out if you want to tell everyone.”

“Well, _ I _ don’t want to pressure you. That’s not fair.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

“So what do I _ do? _” 

Eddie took a sip of his drink. “You can tell them.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Eddie slipped around to the other side of the counter, and smiled up at Richie. Richie’s heart was a goddamn mess -- would he ever be able to so much as look at Eddie without his pulse doing something crazy? Not anytime soon, at least.

“I’m sure.” 

“Thank you,” Richie said.

Eddie cupped his face with his good hand. “I want us to have a future,” he said, softly. “I understand that that means compromise.” And then he kissed him, soft and sweet, and Richie’s heart went fit to burst, again, again, _ again. _

*

“The scars on our palms don’t seem to be fading, this time,” Beverly said. “I assume you’ve noticed?” 

“I noticed,” Bill said. They were sitting outside the Derry Town House, watching the sunset and splitting the last beer in the pack. 

“You think it means we’ll keep remembering?” 

Bill took a sip, thoughtful. “I think so, don’t you? I mean, I can still remember what we did, down there. That’s a good sign.” 

Bev nodded, taking the proffered bottle. “I remember, too. I guess that magic died with It.” She shuddered, and then laughed a little. “Call me superstitious, but even talking about all that feels kinda wrong.”

Bill laughed, too. “I guess we’re not quite over it, yet.”

“Fuck, do you think we’ll _ ever _ be?”

“M-maybe not.” Bill smiled. “That reminds me, though. Mike and I were thinking, we should get the gang together, for dinner or drinks or something. I was kinda feeling a picnic, maybe over near where the Standpipe is -- should be dry enough ground, now.”

Beverly quirked an eyebrow. “A picnic,” she said, dryly. “Really?”

Bill laughed at her reaction. “Yes, _ really. _ I want us all to get together before we have to go our separate ways and deal with all our own real life bullshit, you know?”

“Well,” she said, “When you put it _ that _ way…” She grinned, and swiped the beer from him. “Sure, Big Bill, I’m in.”

*

Bill and Richie got there first. They unrolled the quilt, and placed the picnic baskets, and they were giggling like children when Ben and Beverly rolled in, Stan a few steps behind them.

“We interrupting something?” Beverly said, one eyebrow raised in amusement. 

“Nothin’ important, little lady!” Richie drawled, and Beverly said, “Rich, puh-lease,” and Stan said, “Ew, don’t.” 

Beverly and Stan grinned at each other over Richie’s pout. 

“Whatever!” He said. “Everybody loves to trash the Trashmouth. And on a day when I have something to tell you all, too.”

They all turned to look at him.

“What did you have to tell us, Rich?” Ben asked, politely.

“Oh, nothing much, really. Just that Eddie is my soulmate.” 

There was a weighty silence from the Losers not already in the know.

“And has been since my mark manifested at age eleven,” Richie added. “That’s cool, right?” 

“Shit, Rich,” Bill said, “r-really?” 

“Yeah, man. Don’t stutter on my account.”

“I’m just…” 

Richie turned away, a little sad smile quirked on his lips.

“Surprised?” 

There was a significant look exchanged between Beverly and Stanley. 

“I don’t know,” Bev said, “I mean, you _ were _ always messing around with him.” 

“Huh,” Bill said, although he did still look kind of surprised. “I mean, yeah. You were.” 

Richie looked performatively aghast (and maybe a little comforted -- he smiled at Beverly). “Okay, first of all, how is ‘messing around’ grounds for soulmates?” 

“Well,” Bill looked mildly embarrassed, and Beverly laughed.

“It makes sense for _ you_, Richie.”

“Fuck off! Anyway, I was always bugging Stan too, so…”

“You didn’t pinch Stan’s cheek, though,” Ben said, sounding like he was having several realizations at once.

“_Yet, _” Richie said, and pounced at Stan.

“Ugh, get off --” but Stan was laughing, even as Richie did manage to grasp his cheek, calling “Cute! Cute! _ Cute! _”

“I’m taken,” Stan said, as he pulled away. “Patty got me first, unluckily for you.” But he pulled Richie’s chin down, and kissed him gently on the cheek. 

“What am I, a consolation prize?” 

That was Eddie, of course. He, Mike, and Patty had crested the hill. In Patty’s hands was a large brown-wrapped box; at a glance from Mike she placed it lightly at the edge of their blanket. 

“Oh, Eds,” Richie said; the sudden shyness was back -- his voice was soft. “You got to be my soulmate. That’s all.” 

“We talked about this, Rich.” 

“Alright, alright. You’re lots of other things, too.” But he was still grinning at Eddie, and Eddie smiled back. He sat down beside Richie, their shoulders touching, and looked out at the rest of their friends.

Well, don’t all stare at _ us, _” Richie complained. “And don’t leave me the lone confessor.”

There were several significant glances exchanged between various members of their party. 

Eventually, Beverly said, “Ben’s coming to Chicago with me. I mean, yanno..._ with _ me. We might go to Nebraska together after, or stay there. We haven’t decided.” 

“Oh, thank God _ that’s _ finally fucking happening,” Richie said. 

“We’re happy for you, Bev, Ben,” Bill said earnestly.

“Yeah, that’s what I meant, too,” Richie said, flashing an easy grin. “Can I hug you, Bevvie?” 

Beverly grinned, and she was the one who slung her arms around Richie’s shoulders, not the other way around. 

“Never saw all _ this _ coming, when we were kids, did we?” She said quietly into his ear.

“I don’t know,” Eddie said slyly, from beside Richie. “Ben always had that huge crush on you, though...”

“Eddie!” Beverly laughed in mock-offense, as Ben smiled as shook his head. 

“I know I was pretty obvious,” Ben said.

“He wrote me a poem,” Beverly said, returning to Ben’s side and leaning back across his chest. “You should’ve tried that, Richie.”

Richie went an amusing shade of pink. “I don’t think so.” Beverly watched as Eddie smiled and shook his head, where Richie couldn’t see. 

“So,” Richie said, “there’s _ that_. Wowza. Does _ everyone _ have secret love stories to share?” 

“I’m good with my public love-story, thanks,” Stan said. He was holding Patty’s hand, and his words made her smile up at him. 

“Okay, no need to be smug about it…”

“I got one.” Everyone turned towards Mike.

“Mikey?” Richie sounded genuinely taken aback. “Really?”

Mike was grinning from his spot on the blanket corner next to Bill. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s a shame. I’ve totally fallen for six of the biggest Losers I know.” 

“Oh Hell, Mikey,” Bill said, laughing, as Richie fell into exaggerated groans. “That was good.” 

“No it wasn’t!” Richie complained. “Besides, what about Patty?”

“No offense, Mrs. Uris,” Mike said to Patty, in a quiet, serious tone. 

“None taken, Mr. Hanlon,” Patty said, in the same serious tone.

“What the fuck? Stanny, how does Mike already have an inside joke with your wife?”

“Shut up, Richie,” Stan said fondly. “Hey, wasn’t there supposed to be food at this shindig?”

“Shindig, he says! I think the Georgia must be getting to his brain. Do you think the Georgia is getting to his brain, Eds?” Richie turned towards Eddie with a probing look on his face.

“It might be,” Eddie said with a solemn expression. “It might very well be.” 

Beverly leaned over and murmured to Stan, “I don’t know if I like Richie having a partner-in-crime.”

Stan smirked. “I wouldn’t worry too much. In a few days the shine will wear off and Richie will be annoying again.” 

_ “Stanley! _” Patty said beside him, apparently scandalized.

“What? Look, baby, you just haven’t been around him long enough --”

“Are you assholes talking bad about me?” Richie said from where he was elbows-deep in the picnic basket. “No special kosher sandwiches for you!” 

“Rich, egg-salad sandwiches are already kosher.” 

_ “These _ could be blessed by a rabbi, you don’t know --” 

“That’s not even what kosher_ is _\--” 

“Beep-beep, you guys.” It was Ben; Beverly was curled-up, laughing, into his shoulder. “Are we gonna eat, or what?” 

“Let’s eat,” Bill said, from beside Mike. He had produced another basket containing several bottles of wine. “Hey, let’s do that toast again.”

“Think you could make it, this time?” Mike said, smiling at him. 

“I think so, Mikey.” Bill grinned, and when he did, he looked young, despite everything. “Just don’t make me nervous -- when I am, the stutter c-comes back. S-see?” 

“You got this, Big Bill,” Mike said. 

He reached over and gently took the wine bottle and opener from Bill’s hands. He carefully removed the cork, and poured out small amounts to everyone who handed him or Bill a cup. It was a rare quiet moment from the group; Mike saw a lot of introspective faces. Patty Uris gave him a sweet smile when he filled her cup, and he felt the same deep gratitude towards her that he felt every time he saw her kind face. 

“To us,” Bill said, once Mike had filled his cup, too. “Surviving something like this is…hard. But we all got out. And to Mike, for being our lighthouse keeper. I couldn’t...I couldn’t have done it. But someone had to, and probably the best man did.” He smiled, and Mike ignored the rise of tears behind his eyes. 

“To Bill, for letting us flock around him again like we did when we were kids. That’s a hard burden,” Mike said.

“To all of you,” Stan said, voice soft. “For standing and fighting, when I...when I couldn’t do it.” 

“To Stan,” Ben said. “For saving us when we really needed it.” 

Stan shook his head. “To Patty, for giving me the strength to show up.” 

“To my husband, and all his friends.” Patty has a shine of tears in her eyes as she spoke. “I think you’re all the strongest, bravest people I’ve ever met.” 

“Someone had to do it,” Eddie said. “I don’t think...I mean, we’re not that special. But someone had to fight. For...all those kids, and everyone else.”

“To Adrian Mellon,” Richie said. “And everyone else who deserved a better town. I hope we made it a little bit kinder.” 

“To Georgie,” Bill said, quietly, but without the usual stutter. 

“To the children,” Mike said.

“To all the children,” Patty said. “Including all of you.” 

They sat there in that moment for several long seconds; letting themselves _ be _ those children for one last fleeting moment. 

Bill wiped at his eyes, and laughed a little, into the silence. “To the Losers,” he said. “And to Derry.” And then they all drank.

They ate and drank and they were merry; but this time there was no ominous thing hanging over their heads. Nothing below Derry, and nothing above them but the open sky, ripe with possibilities.

They stayed there, laughing and drinking, for far longer than they intended. And when they left, a small plaque stood behind to mark their presence. Mike had gotten it made, and the writing of the words to be engraved upon it had felt like marking the history of Derry in his journal, except more powerful. It read:

TO ALL THE MISSING OF DERRY

AND TO THE CHILDREN

TO ALL THE CHILDREN

MAY YOU NEVER BE FORGOTTEN

WITH LOVE FROM THE LOSERS’ CLUB

Some part of Mike felt that the Losers’ Club had grown and expanded to include everyone; to include those like Adrian Mellon, who perished, and those like Don Hagarty, who were left behind...and in a way it had. They _ would _ be remembered, by the seven people that would _ always _ be the Losers’ Club. 

“What’re you thinking about, Mikey?” Bill asked. His face was flushed red from the wine.

Mike turned towards him, smiling. “Just about how much I love this town.”

Bill raised an eyebrow. “Even now? After everything?” 

“Yeah. I mean, I guess…” Mike waved a helpless hand. “I hate parts of it, certainly sometimes I hate _ all _ of it, but -- still --”

“I know,” Bill said, gently, and he leaned his shoulder against Mike’s. “I know. After everything, it’s still...it’s still good to be home.” 

And it _ was. _ Wherever the future took them -- to Atlanta and Chicago and New York and England and Nebraska and L.A. -- to a hundred other new and unexplored places -- it was good to be _ home. _

The sun set over Derry, Maine. It was a new night, that would turn into a new day; fresh for the taking. The long watch had ended. Seven children with scarred palms would remember it, though. They’d always remember it. 

_ -fin-  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, this is it! Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading this fic, & I hope you've enjoyed the end. This fic was _absolutely_ a learning experience for me, and I'm really grateful for this fandom for inspiring that in me!
> 
> I definitely plan on writing a sequel (or sequels) to this story -- there's still so much to explore, especially between the various couples, as they continue with their lives. Fix-it is fun for what can come after!** ETA:** I've posted the first of these fics! ['and gladly Nature's love partake'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22298986): It's a short E-rated coda about Stan & Patty going home. I'd like to do codas like this for Ben & Bev and Rich & Eddie as well so stay tuned. 
> 
> A note: the plaque the Losers leave is (obviously) inspired by [a very similar plaque mentioned in another of King's novels.](https://m-o-o-n-thatspellsblog.tumblr.com/post/189481671714) I found the idea of that extremely moving and just had to include it.
> 
> Well, that's it from me! I hope your 2020 is prosperous and healing. ♥ 


End file.
